


A Study in the Effects of Isolation on the Human Soul

by YamiTami



Series: The Long Game [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Apples, As In Green Mushrooms, Basketweaving, Because The Author Didn't Realize This Was 1920, Blood, Brief Discussion of WWI, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Discussion of Abortion, EMPHASIS FRIENDSHIP, Embroidery, Experimental Style, Friendship, Gen, I Know Better Now But The Story Idea Remains, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Isolation, Loneliness, Magic, Missed the Cues In Her Outfit And Thought She Was Late Teens To Twenty Something and Emo, No Attemps But The Island Sucks, No Romance, Not Beta Read, Prose approaching wavelengths of 380–420 nm, Rating May Change, Reckless Behavior, Resurrection, Science, Slow burn friendship, Snakes, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Thrilling Trade Negotiations, Touch-Starved, Unecessary Descriptions of Bases, Universe Alteration, Usual Don't Starve Stuff, Wendy Is Not A Child, gender dynamics in the early 20th century, wilson is not having a good time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiTami/pseuds/YamiTami
Summary: Subject is a thirty-two-year-old human male standing at five foot eleven inches and weighing roughly eight and a half stone as of the third autumn spent in involuntary isolation. Actual duration of experiment unknown due to time difference between the real world and that of shadows. Preceding voluntary isolation lasted one year and ten months. At conclusion of voluntary isolation subject weighed nine and a half stone. Voluntary isolation was not complete as subject experienced limited social interaction. Involuntary isolation has been complete. Subject is displaying signs of malnutrition manifesting in the aforementioned weight loss and bouts of dizziness. Subject also displaying signs of extreme nerves manifesting in visual hallucinations, tremor to the hands, tendency to speak to inanimate objects, and a new habit of writing observational notes on himself as though the current situation is a controlled experiment and not confusion and chaos.





	1. Wake Again to the Same Cruel World

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the tweaks I've made to the world have been inspired by the mods I use in my own game, so [here is a collection of all of them](http://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=859564726&savesuccess=1)!

Wilson P. Higgsbury was not what would be traditionally described as a 'morning person'. In fact, on bad days he wasn't an afternoon nor an evening person, and even on the good days it took took two cups of strong coffee (no milk, one sugar) for him to remotely resemble an anatomically modern homo sapien. Living alone on his own schedule did not help him develop healthier sleeping habits, what with no flatmates or fellow boarders to remind him that sleep is a requirement of remaining alive and with no threat of employers yelling at him if he didn't arrive for his scheduled shift. 'Morning' was just as likely to come at ten at night as five in the morning, and 'sleep' might consist of eight, three, or twelve hours, sometimes up to half of which spent staring blankly at the ceiling and then blankly at the wall. The dark circles under his eyes, already quite prominent by nature, deepened to the shade of a half-healed black eye while the rest of his face fluctuated between deathly pale and a feverish blotchy flush.

Two months after moving into his house in the woods Wilson's dear friend Julius came to visit, and Wilson asked about the state of his complexion (after Jules got tired of loudly wondering when the house's flourishing ecosystem would grow bored with its sedentary lifestyle, take a page from Baba Yaga's chicken-legged cottage, and trot off into the mist). Jules assured Wilson that his appearance was only marginally terrifying but to be safe he should avoid napping in public, lest someone mistake him for dead and whisk him off to be a medical cadaver. In return Wilson assured Jules that his sense of humor improved exponentially with every passing day and that in ten years it might be measurable by the most sensitive of instruments. Then followed a great deal of shoving and laughing in a display more befitting a pair of ten-year-olds rather than two educated men in their thirties.

Jules stayed five days and then continued on to attend a wedding. A week after his departure, while sluggishly frying eggs for an eight at night breakfast, it hit Wilson how much he missed having Jules as a flatmate. Though they were two very different men, the painter masquerading as a sales clerk and the scientist disguised as a telegraph operator, they understood each other. Sometimes Wilson wondered if it was a good idea after all, moving away, but then he'd remember how penned in the city felt. He missed Jules and a handful of other people, he occasionally longed to visit his old familiar haunts, but it was such a _relief_ to spend the first peaceful night in his new house (well, old actually, very old, falling apart old, sat unoccupied for fifteen years old, Jules really wasn't exaggerating much about Baba Yaga's cottage old). After a month Wilson could hardly remember how he ever survived the bustle and press of the crowds. Out in the forest there were no expectations, no prying eyes, and _i_ no needling questions (aside from the occasional letter from his parents, which he would throw away out of spite, retrieve out of guilt, skim out of necessity, properly read out of self-contempt, and respond to out of duty). He judged that a fair trade. Besides, while he lacked regular human interaction Wilson wasn't bored. His experiments kept him busy, he found a certain sense of peace in the tedium of fixing up the house and chopping firewood (once the blisters gave way to callouses, anyway), and he stayed in touch with his few (very, _very_ few) close friends (in frequent letters, all of which he read happily, responded to immediately, pressed to his heart in a display that might embarrass him if he didn't _miss_ them so much, and saved in a quaint wooden chest in found in the attic). When his work got too frustrating to look at he'd go fight the jungle overtaking what remained of the garden, something he felt duty-bound to do. While Wilson overflowed with gratitude, he still wasn't sure why his Great Aunt Esme left him her old New England holiday house and a decent chunk of her estate (enough to live on comfortably for several years at least, more if his investments panned out). She was a dim, perfumed figure in his early memory, patches of recollection from marriages and funerals and formal events. They never spoke much even at said events, aside from the usual pleasantries, but Wilson did remember that she loved gardening. He no longer believed in the Almighty and what, supposedly, comes after (he couldn't, not with all that came attached to it), but he did believe in legacy, and he hoped the daffodils and lilies and raspberries would be a fitting tribute to her memory. Wilson even took up her habit of speaking to the plants, be the words encouraging nonsense or irritated pleas to 'grow you damned bloody gloried weed', praising them when they showed a new bud be they a sprawling pumpkin vine or bright ornamental flower. He stayed busy and he had room to breathe, what more could he ask for? 

Still, he spent most of his time lonely. 

The seasons spent in Maxwell's world gave Wilson plenty of time to reevaluate his previous definition of 'lonely'. 

Maxwell's hell of an island was both a hindrance and a help to getting up in the morning. Logic said he should stay awake at night and work on braiding rope or other tasks that let him stay near the campfire since falling asleep with the unknown prowling around out of sight didn't seem like the best idea. In fact, it seemed like the _worst_ idea. Particularly with something lurking around in the dark, just waiting for the fire to go out (and sometimes reaching out with one-dimensional arms to snuff out the heat and light, because why not), then screeching in this horrible voice that defied description. He always managed to get a torch lit before it reached him, but he had this gut feeling that if it ever caught him in the dark it would _hurt_. So logic stood firmly on the 'don't sleep at night you idiot' side of the line. But the effect of the darkness and all the imagined (maybe?) living shadows lurking at the edges of his vision caused such damage to his fraying nerves that he chanced it once, then again, and now nearly every night, logic falling prey to a creeping weariness that went down even deeper than his bones. No injury befell him thus far, causing him to conclude that the predators had the same healthy respect (fear) for the darkness as he did and stayed soundly in bed until first light. 

Of course, deciding to sleep at night was only half the battle. The other half was _actually sleeping_ , which involved fighting the terror that was his survival instincts screaming at him, arguing with the rocky ground and the lumpy grass bedroll, dealing with the damp and the heat and the cold... none of which was the slightest bit beneficial to getting a good night's sleep. So when the morning sun hit his face and the birds started chirping anew it took him even longer than his pre-island usual to fight his way to some form of consciousness. However, once he groggily made his way to the slightest awareness and remembered (with all the gentle grace of being struck by lightning, which he knew about first-hand, thank you _very much_ , Maxwell), well then he'd be on his feet in a flash with his heart in his throat and his crude spear in his hands. It turns out that adrenaline works even better than coffee (no milk, one sugar) in keeping one awake (oh how he missed coffee, he missed coffee even more than he missed spiders that weren't the size of his head). He even grew to be half aware of the process, though he still couldn't derail that train once it left the station. It remained horrible in a visceral, animalistic way, but there is a certain comfort in routine (even one that involves a racing pulse and gasping for air). A fit of tachycardia every morning couldn't be good for him but neither was starvation and at least it got him moving. So when he woke his logical side went down the mental checklist while his body struggled to keep up. Fighting through unhappy nightmare leftovers, on it. Groggily making his way to semi-wakefulness, check. Scrambling to his feet with weapon in hand... huh? 

Wilson opened his eyes and almost immediately shut them again. Gently swaying leafy shadows softened the bleary brightness of the sun, but it was still too bright by _far_. Though he wasn't moving everything seemed to pitch and roll (was he sitting with his back to the trunk of a tree? falling off a cliff? the odds stood at fifty-fifty). He suddenly remembered that he was in possession of a head and a stomach and a tongue, and that the head pounded and the stomach gurgled sickly and the tongue felt like sewage coated velvet. Aside from the sun being too bright by half (not out of the ordinary when he first woke), the world blurred and shimmered around the edges with twitching, flickering shadows just this side of visible roaming around in his peripherals. Why were those... _things_ back? 

Oh. Right. The hound attack, the one with red fur, his camp in flames. All his stores turned to ash. His coat of beefalo hide shredded and next to useless. His wounds bleeding into the grass. Hands so cold he could barely weave the grass and twigs into a trap, hands so cold he couldn't quite hold on to the one skinny rabbit he managed to catch. Searching, desperately, for food, all too aware that the first snow would come soon. Coming across a wealth of mushrooms. Survival instinct winning out over sense, starvation overwhelming hard learned knowledge. Eating the green ones raw. Eating a _lot_ of the green ones raw (while severely dehydrated and on a stomach so empty it started trying to digest itself days ago, no wonder the effects claimed him so quickly). Wilson considered himself fortunate that nothing tried to eat _him_ while he was well and truly out of it on hallucinogenic fungi (if something did then it would probably still be screeching at the hallucinations, he must've had enough in his bloodstream to take out a beefalo). While he wanted nothing more in the world than to curl up and sleep until his headache cleared he knew he needed to at least take a quick look around and grab a rock or something to defend himself with. So he opened his eyes again and willed them to stay open and focus. 

Wilson looked down. A rough, distressingly well-woven grass rope bound him to the trunk of the tree. 

"Oh?" 

Wilson looked up. A rough, distressingly well-sharpened piece of flint tied to the end of a long sturdy stick hovered two centimeters from his nose. 

"Oh."


	2. You Never Get a Second Chance to Make a Good First Impression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have a buffer of finished (just need to edit) chapters so I am going to start updating this once a week on Thursdays. By the way guys I would love feedback on the style! I don't think purple is really the word for it but it is definitely wordy. Modified stream of consciousness I guess? Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this!

The glinting point of sharpened stone encompassed Wilson's entire world. It took him a bit (seconds? minutes?) to think that maybe he should stop looking cross-eyed at the spearhead and take in his apparent jailer. If Wilson wasn't still so dizzy with hunger (and the remainder of the psychoactive compounds running through his bloodstream) then they might've not been so blurry and wobbly. The sun was also behind them and that did not help in the slightest. Distorted as things were, though, they didn't look like a pigman or a merm (they didn't smell like one either). They looked... no, he couldn't bear to believe that, he wouldn't dare to trust a hallucination just to face disappointment again, it's just the bloody mushrooms and the bloody island and bloody Maxwell's idea of a joke and the bloody loneliness and it wasn't real, it was _never_ real before it was always why would it be real _now_ it never-- 

"Have you rejoined the land of the living?" 

Wilson flinched away from the pleasant, feminine, _human_ voice. "You're not real," he told the vision. It didn't matter how much his voice cracked, at least, since she didn't exist. 

"So you have. How unfortunate, given your current location," she said as though he hadn't said a word. Maybe he hadn't, his mouth was terribly dry and he may have only _thought_ that he spoke. Maybe _he_ wasn't real, except the hysterical bark of laughter that escaped him at that thought made her jump, so he was _probably_ real. After that he kept his eyes firmly shut. Who could tell if this monster could do something to him if she looked into his eyes but he wasn't taking any chances. Not that closing his eyes would do anything about the very real looking spear she still had in her hands, but he did what little he could manage. 

Closing his eyes didn't turn off his brain, though. Her accent was that of an upper crust Londoner (the kind with old money and old influence, the kind who remained 'old money' even when flat broke, nothing like the new upstarts trying to elbow in to a centuries' old class like his family), her words soft and lilting, rising and falling like the rhythm of a song. Wilson was well aware that he recently assaulted his brain with psychoactive compounds (not to mention that he got himself and his brain into this mess in the first place by listening to the radio) and maybe he deserved some retribution but this was too bloody much, god but she sounded like _home_. 

"You can't be real," He choked out, more to himself than to whatever she was (a figment of his imagination? the shadows turned corporeal? a new shape-shifting creature come to do something horrible to him?). 

"I may be whatever I wish, within reason." Oh, so she could hear him. "Though I strongly suspect that when mailing the invitations for this macabre ball the one addressed to reason found itself sorely misplaced. A pity, I should think that reason enjoys a good dance." 

Her calm detachment inflamed something in his already badly frayed nerves. Wilson threw himself uselessly against his bonds and snarled, "Shut it! You're not real! Or if you are then you're some kind of shadow creature... thing..." He slumped again. "Bugger off, evil whozzit," he concluded _most_ intelligently (he wished he could blame his ineloquence on the dizziness, but even so disoriented he knew the plain truth that he could never seem to put words in the right order even at the best of times). 

By the time his breathing leveled out she still hadn't uttered another word. He made himself open his eyes and blink away the blur until he could make her ( _it?_ ) out. While the tip of the spear was no longer hovering in front of his eyes she still held it at the ready in both hands. She wore a long coat of patchwork rabbit skins with mittens to match, as well as what looked like earmuffs with a floppy hat in a burgundy shade over that (it didn't look good enough to be a proper milliner's work, did she make that? felting beefalo wool, maybe, and dying it with berry or beat juice?). Light blonde hair exploded out from under her hat in a long thick frizzy mass. Her skin was pale as his (though in a pink tone that became her, quite unlike the grayish tinge that he never could shake no matter how healthy he was) and there were bright roses on her wind-bitten cheeks. Her eyes were prominent and a shade he couldn't quite pin down, disoriented as he still was (this would be easier if the world would stop shaking at the edges). She tilted her head to the side and considered him. Her expression remained dispassionate, almost vacant. The overall effect was that of a finely painted porcelain doll dressed in a child's first poor attempt at sewing. Why did he create this image instead of picturing one of his friends or a brother or sister? Even a less welcome figure from his past like so called doctors or his parents would seem to make more sense than a completely new invention. 

Wilson squinted at her (... it?). She _looked_ solid, but so did the shadows after a certain point of sleep deprivation. However, they never had detail or color to them so he could reasonably dismiss that idea. The hypothesis that she was nothing more than a figment of his imagination made vivid by green fungi remained the most likely scenario. While odd that a hallucination would take an unfamiliar shape, it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps he didn't picture a loved one because the thought of Maxwell snagging any of them inspired a new level of dread? The rough dress fit his current environment and the educated Londoner accent fit his life before. She was quite beautiful in an otherworldly way, what with her large eyes and the musical cadence of her voice. Styled after a Christian angel, perhaps? Though Wilson no longer believed in such an afterlife it was the culture of his upbringing. It would still be Christian symbolism his mind would first turn to. The Greco-Roman myths, after that. Slight and mysterious, she could be some form of nymph, perhaps? 

Regardless, he didn't have the energy to fight his bonds. Or the sight of her. Figment of his imagination or not she was the only conversation he'd had since the start of summer when the pigmen traveling with him turned furry and vicious. "So, what are you meant to be?" 

"I am meant to be harvesting the corpses of trees so that I may yet survive the grip of the icy hand of winter, so recently descended on this land." 

Between the way the whole world still shimmered and the pounding in his head it took Wilson a minute to parse through that. "That's not what I meant. And why didn't you just say you were chopping wood?" 

Her expression did not shift (a porcelain doll indeed). "I did." 

He sighed, long and deep, and wished yet again for a time machine so he could go punch his slightly younger self right in the mouth ( _hard_ ) for thinking that listening to mysterious voices on the radio was a good idea. "So that's the plan, then? Annoy me to death?" 

"If I wished you dead there are more direct means at my disposal," she nodded at the spear still in her hands as though he couldn't figure that out. "I haven't the time to spend on creative means of execution." 

That, at least, he could believe. Maxwell's world was harsh at the best of times, let alone when winter's first snow was melting on the ground and the looming threat of hypothermia and starvation hung in the crisp air. Whatever she was she probably needed to eat and stay warm and she wouldn't waste time with him unless he could provide some tangible benefit to her. If she was a denizen of the island then she could be looking for another set of hands, someone to help hunt or gather resources. He worked with the pigmen here and there before, traded with them and such, and after a few season of this going well he hired some on to help him gather and hunt (paid in meats, there were worse mercenaries he supposed). It took a grand total of five days for them to turn into monsters and try to rip him limb from limb. Once burned, twice shy; desperate though he was he still wasn't in a great hurry to make a deal with something else of Maxwell's creation no matter how friendly it appeared. Of course if she was a hallucination then the supposed need for firewood could just be his subconscious reminding him that the nights only got longer and colder from here on out. Perhaps the rope represented how trapped he felt on the Island and would disappear once the psychoactive compounds cleared from his system. But if she _was an island denizen could he afford to wait it out? She did hold all the cards._

"I'm stuck," he said at last. "You're either a hallucination brought on by a poor choice of dinner or you're one of Maxwell's creatures sent here to toy with me. Which is it?" 

She hummed absently. "Hallucination, am I? I suppose that is, in it's own way, a pleasant thought, as it would imply that the trials I suffer are only a figment of someone else's imagination. Though, that would also imply that I should thank you for my lifetime of suffering, which is an implication you may wish to avoid implying while I am so armed and you are so indisposed." 

It was a threat, but delivered in such a bland tone. She still held the spear in both hands but in a loose, relaxed grip, business end pointed off to her right and up to the sky. He wasn't sure if the dispassionate tone meant that she was bluffing or if it wouldn't phase her in the slightest to run him through. Did she have no emotion? That would fit her being a particularly well crafted version of Maxwell's clockworks, all wind up workings and no soul (knights, rooks, bishops, could she be the doll-faced queen?). Then again it was so hard for him to _feel_ most of the time. Wilson wondered if he lacked the emotion to spare for his imaginings, and then he was still no closer to figuring out what this apparition was. 

She continued. "I do wonder about your claim of a poor diet. Not that an excellent or even fair diet is possible in this savage plane, but I believe you refer to something beyond simple malnutrition bleeding into simple starvation. Of what poison did you partake, aside from the poison apple that brought you to the garden?" 

"It wasn't an apple. It was green mushrooms. Probably some red and blue ones too." He blinked several times. "Wait, do you have _apples?_ " If his body could spare the moisture Wilson's mouth would've started watering (he forgot about apples, in that moment he might miss apples more than coffee). " _Real_ apples? I know you said they were poison but if we roasted them or mixed them with berries like with the blue meat then maybe--" 

"The apples of which I spoke were allegorical." 

Wilson slumped against the ropes in disappointment, but something more profound than hunger reared its head; doubt gnawed at his 'imaginary' hypothesis. All the rest, he presence, her appearance, even the rope and his inability to move could be easily dismissed. But Wilson knew what he was and he was a man of medicine and chemistry (or, even if he was a failure at the sciences, he was at least a passable mathematician). He could balance a chemical equation or a business ledger, he could plot the growth of his garden against how much time he spent talking to each plant, and onward with numbers and sums. But words? He stumbled often and no amount of education would ever make him truly skilled in the art of conversation. The best he could manage is to memorize enough scripts to feign being able to string together a proper sentence in polite company. He believed he could imagine her form so vividly, but he wasn't so sure he could imagine her poetic manner of speaking. So that was one more hypothesis discredited. She wasn't a figment of his invention. That only left her being a creation of Maxwell's, but given everything else being so crude, given that her behavior while cautious and distant wasn't overtly cruel, given that ridiculous lopsided hat perched on frizzy curls in desperate want of proper care... 

"You have to be a creature of the island come to torture me with this form, you... you have to be. Or if you're not here to hurt me you're still a creation of _his_ , like the pigmen. You can't be... are you... are you really human?" 

Some lingering shred of Wilson's pride felt properly embarrassed at how his voice broke, at the naked desperate longing in his tone. For so long he lived on more to spite Maxwell than anything else, for so long he didn't dare to _hope_ that he'd ever see another living human again in his short, miserable life, and if he saw his hopes dashed yet again he didn't know if spite would be reason enough to keep himself alive. Her expression remained muted, as though her face couldn't quite remember what shape to take, but it was still very recognizably pity. His face burned with the shame and his tongue stuck in his throat but he kept his wide eyes on hers, silently begging her for the truth. 

"I am human," she said softly, a bit stiff perhaps but not unkind. "I swear this to be true on my sister's grave." 

There was the slightest tremor on that last word, and a brief flash of pain crossed her face. The last of Wilson's doubts shattered. He didn't believe Maxwell capable of creating something with such emotion since the man himself didn't have a heart to give his creations. 

"He trapped you here too?" Wilson struggled again, still too weak to make any headway but hope spiked with rage is a powerful cocktail indeed. "I'll strangle him with my bare hands! What the hell was that demon thinking?" 

At his shouts she took a step back and her grip on her spear tightened. "Sir, if you would please control your temper--" 

"I'll control nothing! That bastard deserves--would you let me _go_ already? I believe you're human now! What are you--" 

He slumped forward like a puppet with cut strings and gasped for breath (rage and rage alone can only sustain a man for so long). What little left in his stomach threatened to make a reappearance. When he finally managed to lift his head the girl stood several steps farther away from him, still as a statue and tense as a wound spring. Her expression was back to porcelain doll blank aside from the wide eyes trained on him (a light color, maybe a washed out blue or gray?). The spear pointed his way and the tip trembled slightly. After a few fast breaths (fight or flight, ever the question on the island) she made a visible effort to collect herself and then lowered her weapon. 

"I believe, sir, that I must recover the remainder of my belongings. I shall rejoin you shortly." 

With that curt declaration she turned on her heel and walked off in the direction behind him, though she gave Wilson and his tree a wide berth. When she passed out of his field of vision he remembered the awful realities of the island and that she _left him tied to a tree_. His previous efforts left him too dizzy to do more than weakly lean against the ropes but he still managed an impressive volume (by his current standards) as he shouted over his shoulder at her. 

"You can't just--please don't--at least untie me! Hell, stab me in the sodding throat, don't leave me here to be ripped apart or _starve_. Are you even listening!?" 

The faint crunch of her retreating footsteps served as his only answer.


	3. A Brief Self-Taught Etiquette Lesson

Torn between several strong, conflicting emotions, Wilson settled on outrage. What kind of monster just left someone to _die_ like this? Wilson was pretty sure that he would be capable of breaking that demon's neck (sometimes the violence of his own thoughts regarding that vile man horrified him), but even though Maxwell deserved some gruesome fate Wilson still wouldn't leave him like _this_. What if the hounds came? Or worse, what if they _didn't?_ At least before when he was dying of starvation Wilson had the distraction of the hopeless, desperate search for food. He could console himself with the thought that one day when he passed out it would be the last time, or if hypothermia took him first he'd at least believe himself warm before the end, really that's about as pleasant a death as he could hope for on the island. But _this_ , sitting and stewing in his poisonous thoughts with the inactivity causing him to burn fewer calories and drawing out his suffering? Give him hounds, give him treeguards, give him a legion of spider queens. Anything would be preferable to this slow, stationary death. 

And this girl! Even if she was of the cruelest sort (Maxwell's doll-faced queen indeed! if she wasn't his creation he'd be proud to claim her as his own anyway!) that didn't explain the way she acted. Honestly, _look_ at him. Wilson doubted he even had the strength to stand unsupported, let alone start anything that she couldn't easily finish with her spear. The worst he could do at this point was be sick on her. And yet this foolish girl was acting like she was _afraid_ of-- 

Since his dear friend Cecelia wasn't there to cuff his ear for being so oblivious (C.C., at least, would never be so stupid as to listen to a mysterious voice on the radio or build a door that required _fresh human blood_ to work, she had _sense_ , at least he never had to worry about finding _her_ trapped in this hell) Wilson thumped his head on the tree in her honor. And immediately regretted it as the brass band kicking around inside his skull doubled in volume, but then again he felt he deserved it for yelling at his mysterious jailer. 

_Naturally_ this girl feared him. Wilson would _never_ force himself on anyone but she had no way of knowing that. Not that you could judge a person's true character by their looks, but his outside wasn't doing his inside any favors, what with his torn clothing and hair doubtlessly wild and his beard long since overgrown, his complexion doubtlessly worse than it ever was and the dark circles under his eyes deeper still--he probably looked like a madman with a skull for a face. And the long forced solitude frayed his temper and, from the looks of things, made her skittish as the rabbits she skinned for her coat (if skittish was not her temperament to begin with). His threats weren't directed at her but they were still threats of physical violence. And while he was weak now, once he got some water and real food in his belly he might make a full recovery (provided there was no lasting liver or kidney damage to contend with, everything hurt too much to tell how badly he'd damaged his internal organs). Difficult to gauge her size properly while she loomed with a spear and he sat tied to a tree, but even given the distorted perspective he'd wager good money (which he didn't have) that she was significantly shorter than he. Wilson never was a great athlete, but the long days (weeks? months? _years?_ he didn't know any more) spent chopping wood and hauling heavy rocks left him stronger than he was before. She clearly busied herself with similar chores, given the evidence of the half-destroyed hybrid stone and wood walls surrounding the shattered remains of the camp (and here and there were the debris sheltered the ground from the rain and wind he saw the eroded remains of great furrows and deep hoof prints, likely not her current place of residence, smart of her to take him here), but even if she hid a strongwoman's bulk under the tattered patch of rabbit skins he still had reach and leverage on her. 

Tied to the tree he was completely at her mercy, but as soon as the ropes fell away she would be completely at _his_. And then in spite of the danger he posed to her in any state (let alone whatever agitated condition she found him in) she risked her own safety to save his life. And then he yelled at her. _And_ swore at her. Brilliant foul up and depressingly typical for him. It was like his first meeting with his brother's fiancée all over again, except that slighted woman only glared daggers at him instead of brandishing an actual weapon. Not that he blamed either of them for their anger since both his future sister-in-law and his present jailer had good cause for it. Probably the only reason he ever got to be such good friends with Cecelia is because they knew each other over the telegraph lines long before they met in the flesh. Wilson always found it so much easier to talk to a person in dits and dats or in writing than with the spoken word. At first glance this girl seemed a patient sort but he doubted she'd be willing to wait around while he scratched out a letter to her in the dirt (even if she had the patience she definitely didn't have the time to waste with the deadly promise of winter looming over the land). He had no choice; words would have to do. 

Wilson took a deep breath and stared, unfocused, at the middle-distance. There was a time when he could wallow in self-pity all day but, cruel as it was, the island was an excellent motivator. He couldn't sit around dwelling on what was already done because if he did something would come along and eat him. He got the feeling this was not a particularly healthy source of motivation but then again running off to be a mad scientist hermit probably wasn't healthy either so he really wasn't any worse off than before. 

He wondered if it was hopeless, in any case. In theory two was better than one but basic theory didn't account for one of them being weak as a newborn kitten. Even setting aside her skittish caution, evidence of a survival instinct that she had to learn long before she found herself on the island, Wilson was a threat to her survival. At the beginning of the most desperate season he'd be a drain on her resources. Self-diagnosis is always a tricky business, let alone in his state, and he wasn't sure how long it would take him to recover. A few days? A week? Longer? Why should he expect her to die for the chance at saving a stranger? 

(just breathe. in and out, in an out, oh thank God there's the crunch of her returning footsteps she didn't leave him to _starve_ \--) 

"I have returned," she announced (as though anyone living a day in this hell wouldn't be hyper aware of any sounds in the brush). She came into his line of sight dragging a rough wooden sled. There were some cut logs on it and an axe strapped on top. Looking at it Wilson vaguely recalled the feeling of bark digging into his skin (so that's how a small thing like herself was able to move him, he didn't remember much but he did know he was in the middle of thick evergreen forests when he found the mushroom patch, nowhere near a tidy clearing surrounded by birchtrees). 

Everything was still numb, and not all of that feeling (or lack thereof) had to do with malnutrition and lingering hangover brought on by hallucinogenic compounds. But that just meant he had practice in dealing with it, though he still didn't have much faith in being able to hide it given his current state. He got the feeling she could see right through him in any case. Still, he could blame his state on the island. She didn't need to know that he was always this much of a mess. At least he had a few apology scripts memorized given how often he stuck his foot in his mouth. 

"Uh... miss?" 

She paused, the straps of her sled still in hand, and turned his way. 

"I'm sorry, miss, for my earlier outburst. It was beyond rude of me to yell like that." 

"You were disoriented," she said. It didn't sound like forgiveness, though, more like stating a fact. 

"I was..." Wilson said slowly, "but however unintentional it was I still startled you, and I'm sorry for that. I don't want to scare you." 

After a long moment she nodded ever so slightly. "Allow me a moment, if you please, to build a fire." She did not look at him, except out of the corner of her eye, as she busied herself with a broken circle of stones. 

"Ah, of course." It wasn't too cold, with the sun nearly at the top of the sky, but the breeze still brought a chill that Wilson would rather be rid of. The fire pit (or the remains of it) was close enough to the tree that he'd feel the heat. 

"I will set some water to boil," she continued all businesslike, "and once the rabbit has roasted I will brew a weak broth for you." 

"Sensible, yes, _thank you_." As much as Wilson longed to sink his teeth into a roasted rabbit leg his incomplete medical training told him it was a bad idea. A broth was the best way to go at this stage, so as to not upset his already unpleasantly gurgling stomach. "Thank you, you're very kind," he added after his manners (rusty with disuse) caught up with him. He still had no idea where he stood with her, but at least she didn't look like a spooked bird anymore. 

She hummed absently (acknowledging she heard him, maybe, or just humming), and clicked a piece of flint against her axe until the kindling caught. He watched her hands, almost meditatively, as she added twigs and smaller logs until a cheerful fire burned. As he warmed he felt a little better (from cold and dead to death warmed over, ha). She pulled a rough piece of unglazed crockery from her sled (probably made it herself, like the hat) and pulled out a waterskin. She was close enough and his head clear enough to get a good look at it. The leather bag was wrapped in an insulating layer of felt a mottled tan and brown (looked the same rough color of the beefalo, the likely source of the wool). All that was well and functional, but Wilson was surprised to see intricate embroidery on one side of the felted sack. It was a bundle of plants, flowers and greenery as well as a couple mushrooms (not the kind around the Island, though, it must be a pattern she knew from before or something she made up entirely). The thread shimmered where the light caught it (spider silk?). The band of her hat had a curly sort of geometric thing as well, and the cuffs of her mittens bore flocks of tiny black birds. 

"Beautiful." 

All movement stopped for a few long moments, she didn't even seem to breathe, and Wilson silently berated himself for speaking without thinking. 

"Sorry, miss, I mean--the designs. The needlework. It's very beautiful. You... you have a clever hand." 

She tilted her head at him again. Wilson fancied she could see right through to his skin and bones and soul. A vague awkwardness settled in, like injected medicine running a cold course through his veins. The uneasiness faded quickly, though. Wilson got the feeling that he was staring in just as disconcerting a manner, if not more so, and he couldn't very well blame her for her own version of acting odd. Easy to forget civilized manners when you've nothing but the trees for company. 

Wilson looked up (away from her unflinching gaze) and tried to distract himself by counting rusty colored leaves (the branches half bare, he doubted he'd survive winter if she didn't help him). They both stayed quiet, listening to the wind in the trees and the chirping birds and the crackle of the fire. Peaceful, after a fashion, a peace suddenly shattered by the growling of Wilson's stomach when the smell of roasting rabbit hit him. 

"Ah... sorry," he mumbled, looking back at her again. She prodded the meat and the broth and must have decided that both were acceptable as she took the food off the fire. She set the bowl of broth down within arm's reach of him and then moved behind him with a flint knife in hand. Soon one loop, then another, then half of them fell slack. Wilson shoved them away enough to free his arms and grabbed for the bowl. If not for Dr. Cartwright's very memorable shouting lecture style he would have gulped it down in one go and probably vomited it right back up. Instead, the echoing lesson peppered with insults rebounding in his memory, Wilson forced himself to sip the broth instead of gulping it. Watery rabbit never tasted so good. She nibbled at her skewer and split time between staring at him and staring off into the distance. They finished their meal in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all appreciate that I fought slow as hell internet to post this on time. I do actually have a chapter buffer so if I ever don't post on Thursday morning it's because work has intervened or my internet is too frustrating to deal with and I'll get it up as soon as possible.


	4. Consider a Paradox: Is a Noble Sacrifice made for Selfish Reasons Still Noble?

With the rabbit broth in his belly Wilson felt better. He still felt like he'd been trampled, but by only six beefalo instead of ten. After licking the inside of the bowl clean (he felt a little silly but she didn't betray a flicker of judgement, bless her) he started to reach out to hand it to her but thought better of it. Instead he leaned forward and stretched to the limits of his reach, setting the bowl on the ground between them, before scooting back a couple feet. After considering this move with her blank expression and tilted head she tossed the empty skewers into the fire and took the bowl back. She still didn't speak. She just looked down at the bowl she slowly rotated in her hands. 

At length he cleared his throat and tried not to wince at how she jumped. "Thank you for the meal," Wilson gestured helplessly, "and, you know, everything." 

"'Everything' encompasses much." 

He didn't know how she did it, turn a simple chiding statement into something so profound. Maybe it was the way she seemed somewhat detached from reality (and who could blame her?). Historically speaking oracles tended to be high off their gourds. Though that would make Wilson the oracle, here, not her (detached and numb as she seemed she also seemed to be in complete control of her faculties, fear response aside)(Wilson was pretty sure he was the polar opposite of someone who can predict the future with any accuracy since if he could he wouldn't _be_ there). 

"... It does. Encompass much. And it's accurate." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I owe you." 

"Given our current circumstance I should think you'd be more cautious at the thought of owing a debt to an exceptionally strange stranger, Mr. Higgsbury." 

He laughed weakly. "Yeah. Well. If I was smart would I be here?" 

"You are smart," she said with a startling certainty, "elsewise you would not still draw breath. It is _wisdom_ which we lacked. Only a fool makes a deal with a demon." 

"Huh... I guess you're right about that." 

It hasn't escaped Wilson's notice that she'd yet to offer her name. Something prickled in the back of his mind, something in the tenor of his mother's voice. How rude of this girl to ignore his introduction, it said, how could she stand there giving him nothing when he gave her his full name? Wilson shoved it down like all the other needling prickling reactions that echoed in his mother or father's tones. This girl didn't owe him her name. She didn't owe him a bleeding thing. 

He did need to call her _something_ , though... 

"Miss? M-may I call you Miss?" Wilson waited until she gave a slight nod, still looking at the bowl in her hands. "Miss, I don't want to waste any more of your time. You've done so much for me already. I... I really am sorry about how I was when I first woke up. You found me in who knows what state, you kept me from hurting myself, you fed me..." 

Wilson swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. She gave him hope, for the first time in ages, just _seeing_ another human being that wasn't bleached bones. It was selfish, part of him knew, to be so happy that someone else was trapped in this hell, but he was so starved for human contact that for the time being shame took a backseat to desperation. He didn't know how to put that to words without sounding like a creep, though, so he pushed the thought aside. 

"Look, Miss," he looked down at his shoes, badly mended with bits of beefalo hide, "there's no point in being anything but practical. Winter is right around the corner and I have nothing to offer you. I carry no food, my equipment was destroyed long ago, and I'm too weak to be much help to you at the moment. It would make more sense if we parted ways. When spring comes--" ( _if_ spring comes for me) "--I'll send up a smoke signal. Then we can... take stock and decide where to go from there. I-is that alright?" 

(maybe-- _maybe_ \--he'll be worth something then) 

"What will you need?" she asked at last. 

Wilson didn't know if he should be disappointed or relieved that she didn't argue with him. "What can you spare?" 

The girl ( _Miss_ , not much of a name but he should take care to remember it) finally turned her head towards him. She regarded him with those big eyes (he still couldn't pin down the color), steady and measuring. "Name what you desire, and I will tell you if it can be spared." 

"Okay..." Hopeless as things seemed Wilson wasn't quite ready to give up on staying alive, even if the only reason was to spite Maxwell (it's one thing that the madman tricked a disillusioned, unsteady man of thirty-two, but the fact that he took this young girl made Wilson's blood boil). He didn't want to endanger her, but with new possibilities on the horizon he didn't want to die himself. Particularly if he could be of use to her. If he made it out his life would still be in shambles but she at least was young enough to have a chance at getting away from whatever she was running from when Maxwell found her. The pale imitation of brave nobility warred with raw selfish survival instinct. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. 

He pushed it all down and focused on the task at hand. It wasn't a difficult puzzle, a list of useful supplies, but for Wilson's tired mind it would be challenging enough to net some satisfaction when the pieces fall into place. "Some of the wood you chopped? To last me until I get my strength up. If you can spare some of that grass and flint I can work on making an axe while I'm recovering, then I will be ready to get my own firewood in a couple days." He looked around at the remnants of the camp. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I stayed here? I'm guessing you have somewhere else set up, and this'll be fine for me right now. Has a fire pit, at least." 

"I am but a former tenant of this grand estate. You may do with it as you wish." 

Still with that look like she's sizing him up. Wilson was used to that look, though usually by this point their expression told him he'd been found desperately wanting (middle child, second son, dodged the War or so they think, failed out of med school _or so they bloody think_ , his gangly frame, his sunken features, his hook nose, there was a lot to grade him poorly on). Miss's expression was still considering, still with some odd quality Wilson couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe his plan would work, if Miss hadn't dismissed him as more trouble than he was worth already, and come spring there might be a proper alliance. 

And if spring didn't come... well, it wouldn't be the first time Wilson found comfort in self-sacrifice. If things were going to be awful regardless at least he could feel a touch noble at saving someone else a little trouble. Really, it was all he was good for. 

She tilted her head at him again and after a long pause nodded. "None of which you ask cannot be spared. I will also insist on bringing to you a spare blanket and a week's worth of provisions." 

"If you insist." Wilson winced at his own words. "I mean, sorry, thank you, really." With considerable effort and the support of the tree he climbed unsteadily to his feet, determined to appear better off than he really was. Stiff upper lip, and all that. Also he couldn't stay sitting while a lady stood, particularly not a lady doing so much for him. He liked America better but it seemed he was still British in his bones. 

Miss stood and gathered up her things with a quiet grace. Wilson looked away, not really trusting himself to keep quiet until after she left. Even after commitment to the noble sacrifice is well and truly cemented the stupider (or is it smarter?), more impulsive parts of the mind may still raise objections. So it was a complete surprise when Miss appeared at his side, quiet and sudden as a ghost. Wilson wasn't sure what startled him more, her sudden appearance or the fact that she matter-of-factly slung his arm over her shoulders before wrapping her arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. Wilson gaped at the top of her head. 

"If we are to reach my current residence before duskfall we should make haste. As much as is possible, in any case." 

"I--what?" 

She could twist under his arm and look up at him but instead Miss kept staring straight ahead. "Mr. Higgsbury, was it? I have a room I have considered renting. I believe this first interview went well enough to take you on as a boarder, though I reserve the right to a prompt eviction. Rent is due every day in the form of necessary labor. Do you find these terms acceptable?" 

"But I--I mean--I wasn't kidding, I'm not going to take up all your resources just to make sure we both die this winter, you don't--" 

"I am aware of the state of my stores, and of the harshness of the winter, and of what will happen if I leave you here with a bowl, a dead rabbit, and a few logs." She had the makings of a governess, Wilson dazedly realized, all no-nonsense authority and perfect enunciation. "We will be flatmates, of a sort, and that will be that. If I should perish due to this choice then so it shall be; it is _my_ choice how I shall die and _my_ choice alone." Then, finally, she looked up at him, and now he could see her eyes were one of those in between gray shades that might look green or blue depending on the light. "In truth, this decision has little to do with you." 

Maybe it was just the severe dehydration, exhaustion, and malnutrition (probably some liver and kidney damage in there too, and come to think of it how many times had he hit his head since he woke up in that patch of flowers?), but to Wilson her odd gray gaze seemed to both pierce through him and not see him at all. It had been so long since he even considered the possibility of there being other (living) people on the island. In this case what happened next was entirely up to her, but what would he do in reversed circumstances? If he was healthy and found a terrified slip of a thing out of her mind on hallucinogenic fungi? Basic moral decency and a gentleman's upbringing would never allow him to leave a young girl alone in this dangerous wilderness. Colder logic might say that there's not enough food to last the winter, or it might say that four hands work quicker than two. Forcibly honed survival instinct steeped in paranoia might mark her too much a risk, for fear of what harm she might cause his body. His inner pack animal might scream at him about the damage continued intense loneliness might do to his mind. Spite might say he'd _never_ sink to Maxwell's level and leave someone starving and alone. 

Wilson wondered what motivations drove Miss to half-carry him back to her home, burden though he would be. He wondered what her own deal with the devil entailed. In the end he resolved not to ask and not to volunteer the details about his own encounter with Maxwell; she made it very clear that her reasons were hers and hers alone and his failures were one of the few things that still belonged to him. Besides, at this stage it didn't matter how they ended up on the island. All that mattered was surviving and getting out.


	5. Branches of the Same Birchnut Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All religions, arts, and sciences are branches of the same tree. -Albert Einstein

Exertion blotted out Wilson's higher thought processes as they started walking. At first he tried to map out their surroundings, passing a field with a number of traps scattered around the rabbit holes, then a rocky area, then more birchtrees, but he was just too tired and too sore to pay proper attention. Wilson concentrated instead on helping her help him, planting one foot in front of the other in an assisted half-shuffle that nonetheless got them where they were going. He was so intent on this task that he didn't notice the ramshackle structure until Miss stopped abruptly. 

"We have arrived." 

Everything his body did not have going for it made him _impressively_ dizzy. He could see the structure but it blurred and jumped and repeated itself like an improperly developed photograph. "I'll take your word for it." 

"We must take great care in traversing this final field." 

"Whyzzat?" Wilson quite intelligently asked. He wondered if she made up her poetry on the spot or if she worked it out before hand and memorized it (and fuzzily concluded that either option was impressive). 

Miss pointed to the ground several paces ahead of them, and he willed his vision to clear. After a moment Wilson makes out a reflective glint coming from under a cluster of dead leaves and brown moss. 

"Oh! Are those traps? A minefield?" 

"Indeed." 

"Clever." 

"Naturally." 

They slowly made their way through the safe path, Miss murmuring directions as Wilson concentrated on his feet. They made it through the minefield without incident and Miss sat him down on a tree stump. Now that they weren't moving Wilson's swimming vision started to still. He squinted at the structure. "Some of it looks... old? Very old." 

Miss stared at a point a little above his head and about a mile away. "I have built my home on the bones of those who came before." 

It wasn't as though Wilson hadn't found evidence of other people on the island, but usually said evidence took the form of _literal bones_. The one time he ventured down into the caves he even found a complete campsite with a firepit, tent, and what appeared to be a broken ice box (none of which he was able to scavenge before a giant rabbit creature slammed down next to him growling about murder, he _barely_ made it out alive). But all of it was long since abandoned, any other inmates of the island long since rotted to a bleached skeleton, nothing more than scraps left behind. The bones Miss built on were less hastily built campsite and more ancient ruins (calling to mind the half-destroyed stone cottages and keeps in the picturesque English countryside). Little remained of the weathered gray stone, and Wilson could not guess at the purpose of the building that once was. The corners of the structure stood tallest at about seven or eight feet curving down with a broken tooth look to the lower sections of remaining wall. A great many of these gaps were filled in with fresher looking wood planks and rough stonework (doubtlessly Miss's work). The footprint formed a squared off C with the arc of glinting traps bridging across each end (Wilson couldn't wait to see how those traps worked!) turning the whole thing into a defensive O. In the middle, where they currently sat, lay a small grassy patch dotted with a few tree stumps, one large birchtree still stubbornly holding on to a few leaves, and a handful of dormant berry bushes. 

"Thank you for inviting me into your home, Miss," Wilson blurted out, some buried part of his polished gentleman's upbringing bursting through the grimy surface. 

"You are quite welcome," she replied in a distracted tone, likely some part of her lady's education making itself known without her direct input. Her eyes gazed out in the distance. West, he realized after a moment, and the setting sun. 

"There appears to be sufficient daylight to retrieve my belongings," she announced at last. "I shall return shortly." 

"Oh, uh..." Wilson twisted around, ignoring his protesting bruises. "Is it okay if I look around while you're gone? I won't touch anything, except to sit down or avoid falling over." 

"That would be acceptable." 

Before she left Miss went inside her camp, Wilson slowly following while hanging on to the walls to support his weight. He was given a patchwork rabbitskin blanket to clutch around his thin frame. He didn't even notice how badly he was shivering until he couldn't quite seem to hold it around himself (it wasn't _that_ cold, some of the tremor must be from the hunger and hangover). Without missing a beat she grabbed a large needle and coarse thread and with a few quick Xes made the thing into an ill-fitting but secure cloak. She also fetched him a snack in the form of a handful of roasted birchnuts and a smallish piece of jerky (Wilson approved very much of her medical sensibilities in giving him small portions of nutritious items), as well as another embroidered waterskin. After a moment's consideration she also gave him a strap of hide with similar embroidery, clearly a match to the waterskin. Then with a flawless curtsey (somehow she made such a formal gesture seem natural in spite of her tattered skirts and the survivalist setting) she set out through her field of traps and back the way they came. 

As she walked away Wilson studied her work on the waterskin. This embroidered image depicted a small bouquet of the local wildflowers, a carrot, a pile of red berries, a cooked fish on a skewer, a dead rabbit, and a small bird skull. It reminded Wilson of an exhibition he went to with Jules. There were a few paintings of a similar setup except with gold and silver, and the skull was human (Wilson critiqued the anatomy while Jules critiqued the brushstrokes). They had to do with the folly of man, Wilson vaguely remembered, and how you can't take the fine things in life with you when you go. A somewhat morbid but undeniably fitting subject matter for the hellish island, with the silver and gold of the real world swapped out for the riches of good nutrition. 

Wilson couldn't help but smile as he fastened it around his waist (after taking a generous swig, no doubt he was even more severely dehydrated than usual). Funny how the world worked. There he was, the failure scientist, once again flatmates with a skilled artist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that with my work schedule being what it is right now posting new chapters on my first day back at work was kind of dumb, so the fic will be updating every Wednesday now. I'm also trying to tag ahead of where the chapters are.


	6. Room for Rent: No Windows, No Doors, No Roof, No Walls

Wilson nibbled on the nuts and the jerky as he looked around his new home. The stone wall was about a foot thick around the outside of the C but half that on the inside faces (perhaps the thinner walls were on the interior before the rest of the structure was completely destroyed?) and what remained seemed very secure. Wilson experimentally poked at the later renovations to the structure. Where the ruin dipped in a small gap cobblestone walls were laid in and across the larger gaps posts of wood with planks secured between them stood. In spite of being held together with mud and rope respectively both versions seemed solid enough. 

Wilson may or may not have kissed a slab of wood just starting to gray with age and weather. Security was so, _so_ hard to come by on the island. 

In one leg of the structure (he followed her there when she was grabbing his supper) sat the kitchen. There was a firepit in the corner and suspended above that was a big cast iron pot that looked like it had seen better days. A rusty but sturdy looking chain connected to the large loop of a handle on one end and a pole laid across two notches in the intersecting walls. The handle was made of roughly carved wood (function over form, darkened at the ends where plant matter met hot metal) and looked to be a later addition. Occasionally Wilson found things that clearly came from outside, manufactured things like marbles that he couldn't see the pigmen or their like having the capacity to create; maybe Miss was lucky enough to find a useful bit of junk. Or it could have been leftover from whoever built the original stone structure and this was always a kitchen. 

Next to the fire pit stood a wooden barrel with a wooden ladle sitting on top of the closed lid (Wilson instinctively laid a hand on the waterskin at his hip) as well as a small firewood rack. Across the other corner of the walls a series of smaller poles were secured and a couple pieces of drying meat hung from them as well as bunches of greenery and some kind of odd garlands. On closer inspection the garlands turned out to be twine chains of sliced mushrooms (the sight of the green ones made him feel ill and he decided to avoid the drying racks for the time being). Beneath the drying racks was some kind of square wooden hatch with a rope handle. The pantry, Wilson guessed (even if he didn't intend to keep his promise not to touch he doubted he could lift the thing). There was also a small shelf next to that with a few jars of the same reddish crockery she used before when she made him soup and several woven baskets of varying symmetry. In the middle of the space was a rather large slab of stone held up by two smaller but still very heavy looking blocks (how did a little slip of a thing like her move such a big rock? lots of rolling logs and pulleys? or maybe it was already there when she found this place?). Regardless of how it got there Wilson approved of the scrubbed clean surface. Stone would be much easier to clean than wood, which would soak up all the fruit juices and rabbit blood and contaminate the food. He made do with a slate cutting board, as it were, but this would be much easier to deal with (even though it only stood at knee height for him, as did the rest of the furniture, Miss must have decided to bypass chairs and just sit on her legs). 

Between that and the far corner was a decent stretch of open space with a couple crates and larger baskets sitting along the wall and in the corner. Across from the entrance on the inside of the C sat a long low table the same rough height as the one in the kitchen but made of wood. On and below it sat bundles of grasses and reeds, spools of rope and thinner twine, smaller pieces of rocks and wood, wooden spools of colored thread, bundles of both dyed and undyed wool, as well as several small jars and baskets of varying sizes. A washtub (looks manufactured, likely another piece of the other world like her cooking pot) sat next to the table. The liquid filling it halfway looked black as the shadows at first glance, but the loops of thread peaking above the surface declared the dye to be blue. Wilson itched to get a look at her notes. Dye-making was another form of chemistry, after all, though a form he had no experience with (unless an understanding of what silver nitrate does to your cuffs counts, he rolls his sleeves up for a reason). While Wilson had an interest in fashion (a distressingly eccentric interest, according to his mother) he'd also been steered clear of any early interest in how clothes worked (it's an insult to manufacture, according to his father). The only reason he knew how to mend his clothes in even the most basic way is because Vizzie liked to explain her embroidery projects to him (he touched the barely noticeable unevenness to the left side seam of his red waistcoat, his favorite, she would've faced their disappointment if they caught her doing something so _common_ as _mending_ but she felt so bad for causing the tear...). 

Wilson moved on from the low table, and if his breath caught in his throat it must be the chill in the air, and if his eyes welled up it was only the biting wind. 

A large sheet of fabric (sky blue, thoroughly patched, maybe six by nine feet) was suspended on one end by two poles planted firmly in the earthen floor and on the other by stones and wooden spikes securing it to the corner of the ruin, stretching out diagonally into the space. Wilson stepped under it to look at another collection of crates and baskets, a pile of varying colored bits of felt and furs formed into a shape resembling a thoroughly melted chair, as well as neat piles of stone blocks (he had to stoop to fit under the tarp as this corner of the wall was only about six feet tall and the top of the poles sat a little lower, but Miss stood a tad below his shoulder and would probably glide under with no issue). Pieces of junk sat here and there: bottles, old toys, things that would be bound for the dump in the other world but here were put on display like treasures. Wilson made himself stop staring wistfully at the cracked rubber bath bung (oh for a proper _bath_ ) and looked up at the patched awning. During the previous summer he ended up dismantling his tent to make a similar sun-shade to lounge under when the sun burned too hot to do anything, but it seemed that Miss put in the effort to have separate materials and areas. Which probably was a good idea, now that Wilson thought about it. Converting his tent to and back was a chore he'd rather not argue with again, and it took time away from gathering food. 

Speaking of tents, Miss's stood at the other end of the C. Wilson wondered if the blotchy nature of the pinkish berry toned dye was due to a fault in the dye itself or difficulty given the size of the thing to be dyed (there was some variation on the blue sunshade but it wasn't nearly so noticeable, probably a later attempt, a better dye, or both). Like with the sunshade there were patches here and there but overall the canvas looked tightly woven and very durable. Wilson traded the pigmen an armful of berries and carrots for his tent canvas way back in his first year on the island and it lasted him all the way to the fire. He assumed that Miss got hers the same way (while he was no expert on the making of fabric nothing in Miss's camp looked like it could pass for a loom). In front of the tent and built directly against the broken wall was a structure the same reddish unglazed texture as her odd bits of crockery. An oven, he realized. It stood to his waist with the chimney of birchnut bark bound into tubes extending on above his head, the opening sitting at knee height and facing her tent. The wall of it formed an uneven curve, calling to mind a gelatinous ball of mold growing where wall meets floorboards (at least, that's the kind of thing that dotted his old house like tumors when he first moved in). A bucket of spent ashes sat on the ground beside it as well as an open wooden box full of charcoal bits. 

Miss's base was well equipped, impressively so. Not that Wilson's base was _poor_ per se (at least before it became a smoldering wreck), but he made do with a fire pit rather than build a fully functioning clay oven complete with a chimney. He wondered if that was where he went wrong. He thought he was effectively balancing survival and finding a way out, but his balance may have been off. She clearly spent more time making her base liveable, and dedicated time to leisure activities like her embroidery. Skittish though he made her she seemed to be standing on a much more solid foundation that he did back before the fire. Fortune might favor the bold but life might favor the cautious. 

Dusk fell, suddenly as ever, as he inspected the oven. He didn't notice until he straightened and stood, at which point he noticed the lanterns hanging here and there or sitting on top of the walls. While they cast a soft glow there were enough of them to comfortably light the entire base. Wilson nervously looked out across the field in the direction Miss had gone and pulled his blanket made cloak tighter around his shoulders. He peered into one of the lanterns to distract himself. They appeared to be built out of bottles of all shapes and sizes, most of which were clear but a few were tinted green or amber. More cast offs from the outside, he assumed, discarded in Maxwell's world like the rest of them (Wilson idly and a touch hysterically wondered if the bottles made a deal too). Twigs joined with woven grass twine formed the frame and either knotted into the cord it hung from or became a rough twig stand to sit on the stone or crate. The light danced in the bottle and Wilson realized that each lantern had a handful of fireflies resting on a bed of shredded grass and dried flowers (innovative! why hadn't he thought of that?). 

Fascinated as he was with the lanterns a stronger chill was starting to set in. He was back in the kitchen wondering if she'd be all right with him starting a fire when he heard the dragging of her sled. Propelled by whatever good manners still clung to his malnourished, unshaven frame, Wilson moved towards the 'front door' as it were to assist and (thankfully) remembered the mines when he got two steps into the little courtyard. With no hope of getting through unscathed (and he was still much too wobbly to be much use to her) Wilson sat down on the tree stump and waved when she got close enough to see him. She paused and then waved back. 

Maybe it was too early to start feeling optimistic about things (and certainly he wasn't in his right mind for any critical thinking) but Wilson had a good feeling about this arrangement. 

Either that or he was just lightheaded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is indeed a whole chapter of Wilson describing the base, and while I considered cutting it down really it didn't feel right since I don't think any force in the universe could keep Wilson from being curious and rambly. Actual action happens next week.


	7. The End of a Very Long Day

Miss drew closer, dragging her sled by a leather band looped around her waist. She left it a good forty paces away from the ruin (avoiding the minefield, no doubt), and lifted a string of rabbits and tied it to her belt. An unidentified bundle she tucked under one arm and a few logs under the other. The axe and shovel she left strapped to the side of the sled. 

"The flint is on a shelf by the firepit," she called as she made a zig-zag route towards the camp, "if you would be so kind as to start a proper blaze?" 

"Aye!" He made his way back to the kitchen. Wilson wondered if this was a test of his usefulness and then looked at his trembling hands. She either had great faith in his firestarting skills (doubtful at this early stage of their rocky acquaintance, though anyone who survived one night here had to know how to start a fire) or great faith in her fire pit construction (much more likely as it was _impressively_ solid). He found the flint easily enough, and soon discovered that the lidded basket beside the log rack contained neat bundles of twigs and dry grasses. With the firestarter ready to go Wilson had a cheery blaze well underway by the time she made her way inside. 

She stacked the wood in the rack and tossed the bundle--mangled broken rabbit traps, Wilson could now see--down beside it as he added more twigs and split logs to the fire. The string of rabbits she hung on the drying rack (Wilson still couldn't look the garland of green mushrooms in the eye) and she busied herself pulling out bowls and knives and little jars and baskets and finally settling, sitting on her legs, beside her low stone kitchen table. She looked up at him (he was kneeling to her sitting and she was also _very_ short) with her impossibly gray stare. 

"I believe porridge would be suitable fare for you, Mr. Higgsbury, considering your recent culinary adventure." 

He coughed in embarrassment. Also to try and clear away the sudden strong recollection of a story he heard as a child, a folk story about why it's a terrible, terrible idea to eat any food the fae offer you. "Uh, right. Yes, that sounds appropriate." 

"I trust you will not mind if I prepare myself something more substantial?" 

"Oh, no, of course not." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, you probably need extra energy after hauling me from who knows where, and there's no reason for you to go hungry just because I'm an idiot." 

Miss appeared to be pleased with his answer (at least she didn’t look actively cross, blank was her default it seemed). She pushed a wooden mortar and pestle towards his side of the table, soon followed by a jar full of roasted seeds. He dutifully got comfortable at the end of the table and bent to the task of smashing the shells open and transferring the nutmeat into the metal teapot (missing a spout) she provided. Miss set to work on the rabbits. After stripping two of their meat she roughly chopped it and then pounded everything in another mortar, this one made of stone. A little leftover roasted birchnut, a little bit of an anemic looking carrot, and she had a helping of meatballs cooking inside the pot hanging over the fire. He wasn't quite as quick as she was (his hands _almost_ did what he asked of them but not quite) but not _too_ long after she dropped her meatballs in the pot he had his own broken teapot of water and mixed seeds (which he's still irritated about, he damn well knows the difference between a carrot and a pumpkin seed but apparently the island didn't care) sitting in a notch on the firepit wall itself. He stirred his softening mush with the provided wooden spoon while Miss continued cleaning the rabbits most efficiently (separating out skin, meat, bone, and guts into their own baskets and bowls). 

The silence wasn't particularly awkward, but Wilson still felt it needed to be filled. "These lights are impressive. How do you keep the fireflies alive?" 

Miss started to reach for the closest one dangling above the wood rack, then looked down at her bloody hand and thought better of it. Without touching the surface she traced a wide oval across the glass. Wilson squinted and at length made out a distorted smear across the inside of the bottle. 

"What is that... oh, honey? Makes sense, it's high in energy and it keeps." Wilson opened his mouth, shut it, and then rolled his eyes at the sky. "I was going to ask if fireflies eat nectar or foliage but I guess it doesn't matter here.! 

"Indeed not." Miss returned to skinning rabbits. "The rules are different here, though at the least there _are_ rules." 

He nodded. "Internal logic, yes. Things are consistent, once you figure out what makes certain things happen." Wilson glared at his porridge and the offending lookalike seeds within. "It's still irritating, though." 

She hummed noncommittally. "How is your meal?" 

"My what? Oh, right." Wilson tasted some of the porridge. Weird island seeds aren't really the best substitute for grain but given the circumstances it was fine. "It's done, I think. Soft enough in any case." 

Miss hmmmed and washed her hands in a small bowl she had at the ready, then twisted behind herself for the low shelf against the wall. She grabbed two of her handmade jars and pushed them towards him on the table. The side of one red pot bore a hexagon stamp and the other sported a rougher, freehanded impression of a bush. 

"Honey and dried berries," she explained. "It should only take a touch." 

"Oh! Thanks!" Wilson managed to spare a moment to be curious at the qualities of the clay or the wooden stoppers coated with beeswax, then to marvel at the two or three fistfulls of dried berries in the one (after the first two attempts netted him failure and multiple gobblers he gave up on raisins) and the pint of golden honey (he never chanced the rage of the hives he saw, Miss must have some safeish way of getting the honey to have this and _three_ more hexagon jars on the shelf behind her). Hunger took over, then, and he made himself only take a touch like she suggested, just a couple pinches of berries and a dollop of honey (some kind of grateful he’d be, taking too much and throwing it up). After giving it a couple minutes to sit he tried the porridge again. 

"Oh, that's nice. Thank you." 

Miss turned to him and suddenly looked disdainful to the point of absurdity. "Mr. Higgsbury," she sniffed, "being stranded in this hostile wilderness is no excuse for accepting the uncivilized. There is no question of us having anything other than a proper English supper." 

Wilson nearly snorted his supper up his nose. After a minute of laughing (and coughing) he managed a similar (if not nearly as effective) facade. "Why, Miss, I could think of nothing more proper--and English--than eating supper out of a broken teapot." 

She didn't smile, but her face seemed less blank for a moment. Then the moment passed and they were back to not-quite-uncomfortable silence as they ate their respective meals. Once their were done Miss gathered up the dishes. She produced a second washtub (its twin still half-full of blue dye) from behind a stack of small crates and they both knelt by it scrubbing out the dishes with water and handfuls of gravel. The task sapped what energy Wilson recovered and he slumped against the kitchen table (his eyelids incredibly heavy) as she stood and dusted off her skirts. 

Miss surveyed the relatively open area next to the kitchen and then began moving crates into the corner. She then wrestled a long bundle of poles and badly faded green canvas from behind and underneath her crafts table. Wilson made an attempt to help her once he realized it was a tent (probably her last tent seeing as it looked a little smaller than the blotchily-dyed purple-pink one), but his sleep-drunk hands couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Miss pointedly sat him back down and finished setting it up quick as you please. She wandered around gathering various things for his 'room' (a rabbit hide bedroll from beside her tent, blankets from her improvised chair under the sunshade, rounded silvery stones he recognized as the thermal kind from a crate in the corner). Once the bedding was in the tent and the stones were set by the fire to heat she hauled him up and half-drug him inside. He managed enough awareness to get his shoes off (though she had to undo the rough stitching on his 'cloak' to turn it back into a blanket) and then flopped down as she tucked the stones in against the walls of the tent. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Higgsbury." 

“G’night, Miss.” 

He could hear insects chirping beyond the tent flap. The thermal stones cast a soft red-orange glow, and one of the firefly lanterns hung from the crossed tent spokes. It crossed Wilson's mind that he was trapped, with the minefield surrounding them, but he couldn't bring himself to care. She seemed all right (if odd, and who could blame her?) and he was just too tired to do _anything_. Particularly since this was the most comfortable bed he'd had since he got to the godforsaken island. 

He closed his eyes and fell nearly instantly into a very deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this going up a day late, I had to go in and do inventory at work and forgot all about this by the time I got home.


	8. Physician, Heal Thyself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there's noting graphic Wilson as a former med-student tries to figure out what's wrong with himself and there's brief mention of dehydration, possibly damaged kidneys, and other medical fun. If brief mention of possible blood in the urine will squick you out then send me a PM and I'll give you the summary of the chapter. Be aware though that later on there will be blood as relating to island-caused injuries so this kind of stuff isn't going away.

Wilson bolted upright with his heart hammering in his chest, but his usual waking panic symptoms weren't quite as severe as usual and he came back to himself fairly quickly (the subconscious sense of safety must be muting survivalist fear). After staring at the inside of the tent until he was pretty sure he wasn't still dreaming Wilson gathered himself best he could (which was not much) and stepped outside. And squinted as the sun was already at the top of the sky (when was the last time he slept past dawn?). 

Across the camp Miss sat under the sunshade on her pile of a chair, holding a simple square embroidery frame in one hand and a fine bone needle in the other. She paused briefly in her work as he shuffle-limped towards her and then without so much as a glance she went right back to it. He stood there, _quite_ awkwardly, as she passed the needle back and forth through the fabric, no sound but the soft 'pff' of the thread sliding through the weave and the distant titter of winter birds. Wilson had no idea what she was on about (his mother's voice echoing 'rude rude rude'), but given everything he probably deserved it. In trying to distract himself into patience he noticed that her misshapen hat lay elsewhere, and in its absence she decorated her hair with what looked to be a red chrysanthemum. Its red petals seemed droopy and half crushed but showed no signs of wilt, and after a few moments' observation Wilson realized it was silk (probably something she came to the island with). He realized he was staring at the top of her head and glanced around at what lay beyond the ruin's crumbled walls. And that is when, for the first time, he noticed that Miss's camp lay at the base of _mountains_. 

After a couple minutes (during which he boggled at the unexpected landscape) she cleared her throat. Wilson looked down as stuck the needle in a small red pincushion attached to the frame and looked up at him. 

"Many thanks for your patience, Mr. Higgsbury. It was a difficult part of the pattern and if I stopped in the middle it would end in an hour spent picking out the work of ten minutes." 

Wilson relaxed. _That_ was a sentiment he could understand, at least. If he stopped in the middle of taking a set of measurements or noting observations then it would take him forever to find his place again. At least she wasn’t mad at him. 

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. But, uh, how long have I slept?" 

"Roughly half a day, however long that translates to in the time of reality." Miss set her project down beside her and tilted her head at him. "I thought you might need the sleep." 

Wilson vigorously rubbed his face and was suddenly struck with how terrible he must look, all greasy hair and a tangled beard halfway to his navel. She looked rough with her uneven patchwork coat but she managed to look put together in spite of that. Though that might just be the old money elegance to her (proper old money could be flat broke in a burlap sack and still look more royal than a dozen new industry barons in the finest suits money could buy). 

"In this case, yes, sleep was the best treatment available," (understatement of the century), "and thank you for that." 

Miss waved dismissively. "Perhaps I should take you for a tour," she stood and brushed off her skirts, arranging the tattered layers just so. "I assume you would wish to see the latrine first?" 

"Oh... no, I think I'm still too dehydrated to need that. It would be good to know where it is, though." 

"Perhaps an extra water skin would be a favorable choice to bring on our short walk?" 

"Yes, please, if you have the water to spare!" Wilson called after her as she walked over to the kitchen. 

"So polite!" she called back, and he had no idea if she was being sarcastic or genuine. He had to admit, to himself if not out loud, that he was surprised at how many pleasantries managed to cling to him in spite of his extended savage existence. Some things are burrowed in deeper than not eating with his hands, he supposed, somewhere under the blood stains and grime. Maybe because his parents only taught him manners while the long string of governesses (some were fired, most quit) taught him respect. 

As he waited Wilson rubbed at his right hip, which felt _off_ in a hard to pin way (diagnosing someone else was often tricky but self-diagnosis was tricky for completely different reasons). He ground in with his knuckles, trying to find the source of the problem. Tensor fasciae latae, rectus femoris, sartorius... vastus lateralis, maybe? The whole structure of his knee felt unsound as well (quicker to list what was working than what wasn't, to be sure). The pain was a constant burn that pulsed not quite in tune with his heartbeat, and though he tried he couldn't quite make himself prod hard enough to really pinpoint the source (was it fear of the pain staying his hand or just general muscle weakness making him incapable? probably both). He could still put weight on it but all his muscles still ached. Keeping moving would be for the best or he'd never get his strength back, but he didn't know if he could manage a tour longer than to the latrine and back (maybe not even that, depending on how far it was). 

"I might not be able to walk far," he admitted, still looking at the ground and absently rubbing his hip, as he heard her footsteps draw near. 

"Sitting still will cause your muscles to atrophy," Miss replied all no-nonsense. "I do also have a housewarming gift for you, to assist in this endeavor." 

Wilson's head shot up and he blinked at the thing in her hands. Miss held out a long birchnut branch trimmed down to a crooked staff, with a long strip of white hide spiraling tightly up a good two feet of it where the handhold ought be. It was obviously freshly made, with no burnished edges or dirt around the base. 

"I... I mean.. thank you." It didn't seem adequate. "I truly appreciate this." 

She thrust it into his hands. "Oh, it's not even decorated. Don't fuss." 

He couldn't tell if this was embarrassment at making the gift or annoyance that she didn't have time to make it look nice (likely the latter, given the effort she put into her embroidery projects). He didn't press it though, just grinned faintly as he gripped it and settled some of his weight on the staff. It stood a little taller than he did and his hand naturally fell to the middle of the leather wrapping. With the support of the staff Wilson was finally able to draw up to more or less his full height and confirm that his new flatmate came to his chin (even with her _perfect_ posture and his less than perfect slouch). Such a tiny wisp of a thing! Though he imagined she had her own advantages. Harder to see, easier to hide. She managed, clearly. 

Miss surveyed the results of her handiwork and gave a firm nod. "I believe that will do." She walked over to a chest by the 'front door' and gathered up a bandolier of feathers and a long tube (it took him an embarrassingly long time to figure out they were blow darts). Resting against the wall beside the chest was what looked to be the same spear she stuck in his face the day before, and she grabbed that too. 

"We will not be going far and well within the relatively safety of the ruins, but it does no harm to prepare for the harmful." 

"Yeah, no joke." Wilson moved closer and peered into the chest. Bundles of darts, a little basket of spare spearheads, a flint knife, and two carved sticks with gems tied to one end (one blue, one green). Suddenly the chest snapped shut. 

"You have your staff," she said, the barest bit defensive. 

He didn't want to be defenseless, and he didn't want to be useless, but he also understood where her hesitance was coming from (what with the screaming and threats of murder the day before). "I do have my staff, yes." Miss seemed the cautious sort (aside from letting a raving madman into what passed for her home) and he didn't think she'd haul him into serious danger straightaway in any case. As she herself said she had plenty of opportunity to kill him before this, anyway (left him to his own devices, left him at the tree, stabbed him, poisoned his porridge bowl, slit his throat in his sleep...). 

Wilson expected her to lead the way out, or at least go rummage through something else, but instead she remained kneeling by the chest. The gaze she fixed him with was another of those where he felt like every cell of him was on a glass slide under a particularly powerful microscope. After a very long pause she sighed heavily (like she knew she was making a stupid decision) and took out the knife and its matching sheath. Wilson went with silence. With some teamwork they got it securely lashed to the waterskin's strap and then Miss made an 'after you' gesture towards the little courtyard and the world beyond. Wilson was truly touched when he saw the trail of white rocks laid out in a jagged trail--the safe path through the mines clearly marked for him to learn. He itched to find out how those things worked, but shoved it down for when his hands weren't trembling (he was man enough to admit that he often let curiosity and the promise of discovery blind him to danger, but even he wasn't that dumb). The crude outhouse (walls of canvas, built against a small section of ruined wall) wasn't far from her (their?) camp. After he made a valiant stab at complementing the construction they continued a loose circle around said camp. Here was her woodpile against the outside wall of her main camp, and here was the reserve far enough away that a fire in the camp wouldn't reach it, stacks of stone sorted into the usual light gray he was used to as well as a darker stone and more of the white stones she used to mark the minefield, a collection of beehives she pointed out in the distance, some trees bearing strange bright green pods that she said they'd go after when his stomach was settled... Miss did have a lot to her name. He still felt guilty for gobbling up her resources but the apparent plenty dulled that a bit. 

"Nice setup you have here," Wilson complimented most inadequately as they turned back to the camp. 

She lifted her chin in the air. "My toils have borne ample fruit." 

"That's for sure." 

"And how have you fared on this journey?" 

Wilson considered the question. The overall ache, from sleeping on the ground and running into who knows what while hallucinating, mostly faded to the background when he wasn't paying attention to it. Same for the low-grade headache he'd carried for a season at least. The pain in his abdomen was a little stronger than the rest (Wilson wished he didn't know all the ways kidneys and livers could go wrong). In the here and now, though, it wasn't too bad. His leg remained another story. Wilson still stood and was in no danger of falling, not with the staff, but his right hip and leg protested _very_ loudly and he could feel the threatening tremor. He had no doubt that if he tried to make this walk without the staff Miss provided then he would have fallen to the ground halfway through. While he'd been sipping from the waterskin almost constantly it hadn't been long enough to offset his dry mouth (uhg, dehydration) and even getting up and moving he didn't require the latrine yet (troubling, but not unexpected given how bad off he'd been). The shadows were gone but his vision was still off, the colors off and a faint waver to anything he looked at for more than thirty seconds at a time. 

Self-diagnosis. _Always_ messy. "... Well, Miss, I have the strong suspicion that there'll be blood in my urine once I finally get hydrated enough to need that," Wilson gestured in the vague direction of the latrine. "If all the mushrooms did permanent damage... I guess we'll have to wait and see. Everything feels bruised but I can deal with it. My leg is very weak--thank you _so much_ for the staff--but hopefully with careful exercise I can get it strong enough to at least walk properly. The hallucinations are all but gone. There's just some slight visual distortion, a sort of shaking around the edges and the colors don't quite look right. I'm not sure how long a high dose of the compound in the greens lasts but my vast improvement since yesterday leads me to believe I should be free of the distortions in a day or two." 

Miss considered. "Would the blood be due to the mushrooms or due to a blow?" 

"Hard to tell, particularly out here." Wilson shrugged. "Probably both. To be honest, I'm sure I ran into a low branch at some point. That sounds like the kind of stupid thing I'd do after eating a lot of hallucinogenic mushrooms... huh." 

"What's wrong?" 

"It's just... odd." Wilson scratched his chin, through the bushy layers of beard. "You've had training, haven't you? Medical training." She still looked _impossibly_ young, but then maybe she just had quite the baby face (and maybe he was just getting _really_ old). "Typically proper ladies don't slip 'atrophy' into conversation, I'm realizing. And the interest in anatomy and how easily you talk about a stranger's bodily fluids. How long did you study? Nurse or doctor?" 

"Patient," she answered, her voice wooden as his staff. "I spent most of my childhood bedridden." 

"Ah." (well, great going, Higgsbury!) "Sorry?" 

Again with the tilted head. Like a puppy with the saddest eyes. No, the doll imagery still won out over everything else. Well, if she spent much of her formative years very ill then that could easily explain her medical knowledge and her seeming fascination with the morbid, with the skull picture on his waterskin and all. People who spend a lot of time in the vicinity of death often made it into a friend to cope. There was that one boy Wilson observed, only twelve or so and in his second year of fighting tuberculosis. There was a weary sort of stubborn survival to the boy, and whenever he bloodied another handkerchief with his coughing he'd ask the gathered medical students what they thought it looked like, trading clouds for bloodstains (Wilson and Bright played along, much to the annoyance of the boy's actual doctor, but they decided damn him since every suggestion of bird and tree and pirate ship drew a bright smile from the dying child). 

As they made their way back she didn't continue the conversation and he most wisely let it lie (out of wisdom, certainly, and not because he was occupied with painfully remembering someone he made it a point to forget).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that! Second week in a row getting it up late but at least it's only by a day. I also finally got the collection of mods that I use in my game which inspired some of the tweaks to the world in the fanfic. The link is at the top of the story!


	9. Ask Me No Questions and I'll Tell You No Lies

Even though he just woke Wilson felt the exhaustion creeping back in by the time they got back from their short walk. He asked if there was something he could do, something sitting down, for today. Miss stared at him for a while before shaking her head. 

"I will grant you a short term loan to cover your rent for the next few days." She was tiny but he was tired and she easily shoved him down to sit on the kitchen table. "Eat, then sleep." 

The guilt of being a useless drain screamed at him but his body screamed louder. Wilson dutifully ate the roughly mashed potato she gave him (did she figure out how to harvest salt from the sea as he did or did she get rock salt from the mountain?) and then stumbled off to his tent. In the next few days he didn't leave the camp (except to limp to the latrine). Though he did pace the interior and do various stretches to try and work out the damage to his leg for the most part he sat and worked on braiding rope and tanning hides while Miss trapsed around creation checking her traps and cutting wood (and being in danger while he sat in relative safety doing all the easy jobs, like a jerk). 

Though confined Wilson was still able to explore in those early days, through his own visual surveys (while the island took many things from him his eyes remained quite keen) and through Miss imparting some of what she'd learned. 

"This stands as the remains of the central most building," she explained as they both sat at her craft table repairing broken rabbit traps. "Most of it has eroded in the face of time--or perhaps something more sinister--but I believe this to be a squared off room attached to a larger round building." 

Wilson nodded. "I saw the curved segments out beyond the kitchen-side. About a foot and a half thick, made of that dark stone? If the walls did continue on in a complete circle, given the curve of them that would make it, what, roughly two hundred feet in diameter?" 

"That sounds appropriate." Miss traced a circle in the air above her head. "It appears the main streets radiate out from this central point." 

"Like the spokes of a wheel?" 

"Hmm. More likely the web of a spider, given our surroundings, but yes." 

Wilson tried and failed to suppress a shiver (they're sitting in the middle of a spider's web, yes, that is _exactly_ what he wanted to hear) but thankfully the cold air disguised his reaction. "W-well, I guess it's not the first city that's been built that way, though it makes me wonder why. The only contemporary structures are the villages built by the pigmen, and there doesn't seem to be any planning involved there. I mean, of course they decided that the spot was a good place to settle down, but there's no defined streets and the placement of the homes don't seem to follow any solid pattern. No grid or webs, at least." 

Miss then gave him one of her long, searching looks, and apparently liked something she saw in him as she nodded and spoke with obviously fake casualness. "I have heard mention of rebuilding after having to flee their previous homes. They settle, they grow, they are destroyed, and then they begin the cycle over again." 

"Makes a depressing amount of sense." After his last violent dealing with the suddenly vicious (and purple) pigmen Wilson wasn't particularly fond of them, but he could still understand their position. Survival is survival, meat is meat. "A bigger village draws more attention. No wonder they're still very rudimentary after who knows how long they've been here. They can't stay put long enough to invent any serious forms of industry." 

He paused and frowned at the trap in his hands. 

"How did the people who built these ruins do it, then?" 

"An excellent question, one with no clear answer." (probably her favorite kind) "What is your theory?" 

"Could be a lot of things, I suppose. The... _problems_ of the island may not have been as bad back when this was being built, then as animals evolved and things shifted they were overwhelmed. Maybe the pigmen did build it. Or their ancestors, technically." 

"A viable option. Have you any others?" 

Now well and truly aware he was being tested (to what end, he didn't know) Wilson considered his next words more carefully. 

"A colonizing force from a civilization somewhere else may have moved in. While trying to build when you have to spend all your time not dying is hard, if they came in with an army and superior technology then they could have defended their position while they built this place." 

Her gaze cut through him (what is she looking for?). "Is that it?" 

Wilson opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked around at the broken stone surrounding him. 

As he had many times since making his deal, Wilson thought about the Great War. 

He'd always been fascinated by the way advances in science and technology can change the landscape of the whole world. Harnessing electricity, steam power, the telegraph he used to operate... none changed the world quite like mustard gas or biplanes dropping bombs. Wilson thought about the way his brother came back from France a different man. He remembered trying to find the answers Jack refused to share in newspapers. Seeing the miles and miles of trenches and barbed wire and bone and blood hidden between the headlines shouting about heroic sacrifice and glorious victory. 

Wilson shook his head. "Maybe it wasn't a natural shift. Maybe the people who built this are the ones who caused the island to be this way. Through desperate acts of war or... or through scientific negligence, they may have unleashed something that destroyed them and turned this place into what it is now." 

He wondered, and not for the first time, which situation took the prize of most twisted. Most horrific. Sure, being an apparent repeat murderer's plaything was twisted enough without throwing in mysterious offers of knowledge and doorways and silver blades, but does the complexity of it outweigh the sheer scope of what happened in all those muddy trenches? No matter what his powers Maxwell was still only one man. Multiply all the island's skeletons bleaching in the sun by a hundred, by tens of thousands, and it still wouldn't hold a candle to the millions snuffed out not so long ago. 

He sighed, deep enough to strain his still aching ribs. 

"I'm not an archeologist or anthropologist. I really couldn't draw any viable conclusions even if there was more data to be had." 

Again with the tilt of her head. "What are you, then?" 

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I mean, my work crosses a few fields. Chemistry as it relates to medical practice, mainly." 

"Ah, a maker of medicine, are you?" 

"Uh... I'm trying to be?” 

Miss nodded sagely and turned back to her work. "To try is more than many ever do." 

Wilson stared at her for a minute before doing the same (was that a compliment? is it even possible to tell with her?). 

This sort of talk quickly became familiar, philosophical discussions peppered with the sense of being tested on matters beyond his reckoning. He didn't really mind, though; since Miss's judgement never seemed all that judgemental it wasn't particularly uncomfortable. Just odd. She was the art type, plain as day, so it didn't surprise him much that she'd prefer to tackle the amorphous subjects. Of course as a science type his interests lay in easier mysteries, passing up the nature of the ruins or the universe for simpler questions like what were Miss's two exceedingly odd pieces of jewelry (for lack of a better term) even for. Wilson's first passing inquiries about them were met with that vivisecting stare so he stopped asking (shoving down his curiosity as finding the answer wasn't worth alienating the one other human on the island). 

One was a disc made of a coppery metal coated with a dingy patina, roughly round and roughly octagonal with a diameter of about six inches. The raised oval set inside a raised ring made it look vaguely like an eye (at least, it did to someone who spent a lot of time on high alert for eyes in the darkness) which was unsettling enough without the thing glowing faintly red all the bloody time. The disc lived on Miss's belt, affixed to the leather strap by a knotted setting of twine. The spiderweb pattern didn't help it look any less unsettling. Wilson hoped that the hostile creatures of this world were equally put off by it (the hounds did seem to go for him more than her, though that could be because he was easy pickings in his recovery). 

The second lived on an embroidered cuff clearly of her making, though the same could not be said of the smooth domed stone and the metal setting (bright and shiny coppery metal, likely the same alloy as that hiding under the patina on the disc). It must've once been the centerpiece to a necklace or bracelet as there were four tiny rings on either side of the setting, once supposedly linked with chain and now fastened to beefalo felt and rabbit hide with charcoal dyed spider silk. The overall muted green of the cuff complimented the orange metal and the milky white stone, which Wilson was complimenting her on when he realized the stone was glowing (because of course it was). Dull, like the disc, but white instead of red and _far_ less off-putting. 

"That's a lovely accessory," Wilson ventured once as they both sat working on the same attempt at a fishing net. "Is the stone phosphorescent?" 

"Hmm..." Miss paused, her hands frozen in a snapshot of a knot about to be tightened, "That is when it consumes light and stores it to be radiated out into the world later on?" 

"Yes, indeed." 

She shook her head ever so slightly. "No. It consumes nothing, turns it contrary, and thusly creates light." Then she held his eyes with that intensely sad gaze of hers. "If it glows bright that means it is time to run." 

Wilson quickly learned that when she took that tone it meant there was no point in asking any more questions on the subject. He observed, though, and found his initial hypothesis (that it absorbed energy from the darkness or from the shadow creatures) to be incorrect. It fluctuated from so dull a glow as to barely be seen even by soft lantern light and sometimes just bright enough to read by at about candle strength (a range of intensity which did not seem to trouble Miss, though she checked it often when it turned brighter), with no seeming correlation to the time of day or proximity of creatures. It did seem to favor some areas over others, patches here and there through the ruins (seemingly focused on what once was specific buildings), some areas near the mountains, the pig village across the small lake, and a large clearing in the nearby birchnut forest were consistently brighter, and when they ventured farther away from the mountains to gather cactus or nitre (common in the boulders but apparently very rare in the dark stone of the mountains) it would fall to the dimmest state. While Miss never answered him directly Wilson could gather through her poetic dismissals and the pattern of glowing that some property of the mountain was causing this, that it was likely (though he could not be sure) that this effect is why the beasts of the island didn't seem to like getting too close to the ruins or mountains. Given the genuine caution and buried fear in her voice whenever she held out a hand to stop him, the stone burning candle bright, while a little bit of the effect was beneficial something in the more intense areas was to be strongly respected. 

And so a great deal of their exchanges went. Miss freely volunteered the location of her caches of supplies and other such valuable survival information (which would enable him to rob her blind if he was of the mind, and he deeply appreciated the trust she was placing in him), but when it came to questions regarding the nature of the area she grew evasive. Forthright about what was dangerous, but stingy on the details. It... needled, a bit, the not knowing, but he tamped down the urge to go investigating. For one thing, if something nasty did turn up he and his permanent limp and constant low-grade abdominal pain would probably not be able to outrun it, and if it was bad enough to cause such tight lipped fear in _Miss_ (who Wilson personally witnessed playing cat and mouse with a bloody swamp tentacle, wearing it down over the course of half a day with a spear because she didn't want to waste her blow darts) he probably would not be able to fight it effectively. 

At least Wilson's injuries didn't prevent him from being useful, if not as useful as he'd like. Miss's cautious approach suited both her lack of strength and his impaired mobility. They spent most of their time in her already established territory and expanded the (relatively) safe explored areas slowly and carefully. They worked on a cycle. There was tending to the various farms. The spider one was both the most innovative and the one he hated dealing with the most. Tall wooden cages (thankfully _very_ well built) housed clusters of the awful hissing things. When the webs grew thick enough she'd place meat in a smaller adjoining cage and once they all swarmed in shut a gate so that she could safely step inside the main enclosure and gather the silk. When the cages grew too crowded they had spider glands as well. There were also the beehives, which required net hats of carefully woven silk and grass as well as thick felt ponchos and leather gloves, which netted them plenty of honey and beeswax (she said she made candles, once upon a time, but the fireflies turned out to be more effective). They fished from the familiar small ponds nearby (the fish in the lake were twisted by shadow and were about as suitable for consumption as the spider meat, which is to say, not very). There were still birchnuts to be found clinging to some of the bare branches and scattered below among the rotting leaves, as well as evergreens to be cut down for firewood. Winter passed quickly enough, with company and busy hands. As soon as the ground was soft enough to work Wilson started on a proper garden (the small beds in the courtyard turned out to be for herbs which behaved like badly copied versions of mint, marjoram, sage, and chamomile, which Wilson had not seen anywhere else on the island before the seeds started to sprout). The thaw brought berries as well, though the rabbits were still safely underground leaving them to hunt around for moles for their protein. 

Over the course of a few days they'd tend to those chores, then with meat and berries set to dry and firewood stacked the two of them would pack up for a few days' journey. Sometimes it was out into the 'normal' parts of the island to harvest in the wild or dig up more berry bushes to transplant to the ruins. Sometimes it was up into the mountains to gather the different breed of flowers (more effective at aiding healing than their lowland cousins) or bits of dark or white stone. 

Then, sometimes they'd go to the village across the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on that! Work has been particularly hectic the last couple weeks but the new GM is trying actively to not kill me so things are settling down.


	10. Is it Better to Rule in Hell than to Serve in Heaven?

It was at Miss's insistence that they travel through the ankle-deep snow twenty-one days after Wilson woke tied to a tree. While he was feeling stronger Wilson wasn't up for dealing with any angry swarms, particularly so soon after dealing with the hounds (they came four days prior, at the growls and barks Miss led him to a heavily trapped area where he drew the pack across the spring-loaded spikes while she blew darts at them from on top of a tall bit of still standing wall. not particularly dignified, but it was effective). 

"You know the pigmen turn into shaggy purple things, right?" Wilson asked, shading his eyes from the harsh winter sun as he gazed out at the village across the lake. "Shaggy purple toothy things. Angry ones. With claws." 

"Descriptive, Mr. Higgsbury." 

He pressed on in the face of her indifference. "I know they have things for trade but it just seems like an unnecessary risk." As an afterthought, he added, "You can call me Wilson." 

"As you've offered before." She bustled around the little camp packing up supplies for the trip. "They only turn on the full moon, which is now two days passed. Even should we find need to impose on their hospitality they will pose no danger. Provided we are civil, of course." 

Wilson glared up at the sky. "What's the point in that? Just another thing that doesn't make sense here?" 

"You ought have read fewer informative scientific texts and more useless fantasy." Miss wasn't smiling (she never smiled), and her tone stayed hypnotically level as always, but it was that one shade of unsmiling level that meant she was teasing him with an implied grin (for all her propriety and grace she did this a _lot_ , not that Wilson minded). 

"What does that have to do with--" Wilson blinked. "Wait, the _full moon?_ You're telling me the pigmen are _werewolves?_ " 

She hummed, maybe in assent, as she layered greasy purplish jerky (the spoils of their battle with the hounds) wrapped in waxed papyrus into her bag. 

"Huh. I didn't think about it being an _involuntary_ change. I thought they just dropped the ruse when they got hungry." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "I feel kind of bad now. I mean, defending myself was necessary! But if I'd known..." 

"When they turn they are completely beyond reason. Had you known your path to survival would remain the same. And there is no need to fret, for they hold no grudges for such things." 

Wilson looked at his (poorly mended, wrapped in felt and leather strips) shoes. "I know they're a bit simple but I find it hard to believe they wouldn't care if some stranger to their land killed three of their kin." 

"Those I took of this village did not sway their opinion about me. Lay your guilt elsewhere as it will only weigh heavy and burden you on your journey." She shrugged. "It takes more than one attempt to learn to dance." 

After taking a second to figure out what dancing had to do with anything Wilson smiled softly. He really did like the way she poetically phrased things, even when it was unnecessary. Especially when it was unnecessary. Like using the good china for every common meal. 

Her silent nod serving as the declaration that the matter was settled (he found it hard to hold on to his disbelief in the face of her certainty), Miss hoisted the jerky-filled bag on her shoulder and Wilson picked up the one with their provisions and supplies. Wilson leaned a little heavier on his staff with the added weight but he managed all right as they made their way around the lake. They paused here and there as Miss pointed out a few ruined rock and rusted metal structures in the shallows (the sightseeing tour a kind lie to excuse his need for frequent breaks). Wilson shared her heartfelt disappointment that they couldn't dive down and find out how deep the ruined structures went (archeology wasn't Wilson's field by any means but in spite of everything he still had curiosity in spades). The pursuit of knowledge was a worthy one, but not when something nasty lurked in the lake (Miss sacrificed a hunk of dried purple flesh to demonstrate the sudden bubbling and churning that followed its disappearance). It followed the logic of the world that the thing that is different (the one large lake versus the many small ponds) would contain either something very good or very, _very_ bad, and Wilson wasn't about to bet his life that this thing was friendly. 

The collection of small, narrow buildings was unusual as well (still up in the air if that meant good or bad). Wilson never came across any pigmen settlements bigger than a handful of houses, maybe five or six at the most, but this village sported two dozen at least as well as a much larger (and smellier) pig who appeared to be their king. At least, that's what Miss whispered to Wilson as they approached. The collection of obelisks carved of some glossy black stone surrounding the 'king' spoke to some importance, as did his headdress and exalted position in the center of the town, but _surely_ something like 'chieftain' would fit better than 'king'. The obelisks also set Wilson's teeth on edge with their subtle wrongness. Then again the wrongness may have been imagined since he was already on edge just being around pigmen, in spite of Miss's assurances that they wouldn't turn anytime soon. 

"So," Wilson ventured at length, shading his eyes against the bright glare of the sun and squinting across the village to where the big pig lounged, "how does this work? Because while I did selfishly abandon the crown by moving to the colonies I think I'm still too British to swear an oath of fealty to a pig in a grass skirt." 

Instead of answering him directly Miss tilted her head at him and then turned on her heel, striding purposefully towards the large pigman. She stopped at a respectful distance and then dipped into a deep curtsey. With the grace of her movements Wilson could almost believe this was legitimate royalty they were dealing with (almost). 

"What bring you, friend?" the 'king' asked, his voice a measure deeper and more gravelly than any of the regular pigmen. At least it did seem true that they didn't hold grudges for the deaths of the werepigs (if Miss really did kill one from this village as she said). 

"I have brought many things for trade, your majesty." She turned and swept out an arm in Wilson's direction. "However, if it would please you, I would like to present my new boarder to your court. He is a visitor to these lands, as am I, and I would ask he be taken into the same trade alliance that your majesty and I already share." 

The pigman looked past her to where Wilson awkwardly stood. Miss stared over her shoulder at him as well, both expectantly waiting for him to play his part. 

(oh, what the hell, it's not as though King George is ever going to hear about this) 

Wilson stepped forward to stand beside her, still leaning on his staff but he tried to imagine it as a fine walking cane fit for nobility (like the one his father had, with an ivory handle and gold leaf covering most of the wood). Knowing that a bend at the waist to even come close to Miss's curtsey would cause the pain in his abdomen to spike he instead sunk to one knee and briefly bowed his head. 

Miss continued, her grand motions just visible out of the corner of Wilson's eye. "This, sir, is my new flatmate. He is a man of science." 

The king nodded in a way he (it?) probably considered sagely. Air huffed out of his snout and his mouth stretched into a wide grin. Those of his 'subjects' near the 'throne' stopped what they were doing, frozen in the moment of carrying wood or cleaning fish, and chuckled in clear delight at the proceedings. While they were interested they didn't gather in even an informal sort of court (maybe that's why the king was so delighted with Miss, since he didn't get such unnecessary ceremony from his subjects). 

With some difficulty Wilson got back to his feet (Miss grasped his arm to help him get up and then immediately broke contact). The king, still lounging on his little piece of civilization (a fifteen foot square patch of wooden plank floor, no walls aside from the weird black obelisks, a fitting throne for this place) waved them over magnanimously. Wilson and Miss stepped closer, Miss unslinging her pack as she walked. 

The king nodded at Wilson. "Welcome, new friend! My people are good people... if you are good to them. Trade is good... if it is good for you and for us. Yes?" 

Wilson blinked (partially due to the smell, granted he didn't smell nice either but come on). The subtle threat wasn't all that subtle, but it was more nuance than he expected from the pigmen. Maybe there was a good reason, aside from size, that this one was their apparent leader. 

"I understand." Wilson remembered they were playing at court (which was starting to feel a lot less like play) and corrected himself, "I understand, your majesty." 

With a satisfied snort and a final nod of approval the king turned towards Miss. "Old friend, what bring you today?" 

"Meat." She opened the pack and showed him the wrapped bundles inside. "Merely the monstrous kind, but we have done the labor of drying it for you so that your subjects may use it in their winter stews." 

"Good! Not as good as beefalo, but good enough when the air grows cold." He held out a hand and Miss obediently handed the whole bag over. "You will have food?" 

"The hounds shall return soon enough." 

There was a glimmer of... something in the king's eye. Something profoundly sad. "Always," was all he offered on the subject, and yet that single word seemed to encompass the world (either that or Wilson was projecting). Then the moment passed and he was back to jovial. "Good trade! Take this and be strong." 

One of the other pigmen walked up, then, with a small stained canvas pouch. Miss accepted it with a nod and a few words of thanks, then poured the contents into a small bag tied to her belt. Gold nuggets, it turned out. Once the bag was empty Miss handed it back to the waiting pigman, and was given the emptied meat pack in return. With the transaction complete Miss curtseyed again (a simple bob this time) and Wilson followed suit with a bow (a respectful bend at the neck, he wasn't getting down on his knee again). 

"Okay," Wilson asked as they walked away, "what now?" 

"We will go to market and trade all this gold directly back to the pigmen." Miss reached into the pouch and pulled out a nugget, holding it up and turning it as it caught the light. "I believe I've had the same nugget twelve times." Shaking her head, she put it back. "But that is for another hour. For this hour I propose we sit in a place with dozens of lookouts and enjoy a meal in peace." 

"This is a plan I can get behind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that! A million things have been kicking me in the teeth lately with work and my health.


	11. A Rose By Any Other Name

After finishing their audience with the king, Miss and Wilson settled onto a log at the edge of the village to eat their packed lunches. Wilson chewed his sandwich (rabbit and pickled greens on bread traded for frog legs on the way into the village) and gazed back at the king, who had not moved from his little patch of wood planks and weird black obelisks. 

"Does he have a name?" 

Miss followed his line of sight and did not answer until she swallowed her bite of meat and veggie (mostly meat) kebab. "I've never heard any of the others call him by one. They actually used to call him 'great one' before he took a shine to my calling him 'king'. Drawn to the show of power, I suppose." 

"I think it's less the word and more the way you act when you're calling him king." Wilson drew in the air with his sandwich and lost a sizeable piece of pickled greens. With a lack of hesitation that spoke to his longstanding relationship with near starvation he picked it up off the ground and poked it back in between the rough bread slices. "'Great one' actually sounds more mystical and powerful than 'king', but I'm guessing it didn't come with curtsies and courts and grand introductions." 

Miss nodded, a mundane gesture made comical by the fact that she was holding her skewer in her mouth to free up her hands for pack rummaging. "A roth by amny obair nemm wod thound af sveet." 

Wilson laughed (more mirth packed into twenty seconds than his last year put together). "I can't understand you when you've got your mouth full like that." He waggled his sandwich at her and nearly lost a slice of rabbit. "Manners, your ladyship." 

She dropped a collection of objects on the ground beside her. There was a stained reed pen, a tiny clay jar with a wide smear of blue on the outside, and sheaf of loose papyrus pages wrapped in a brown leather sheet and secured with tightly wound yellow and green cords. With that retrieved she was able to remove her half-eaten skewer from her mouth and glare at him, though there was no heat in her eyes. "I _said_ 'a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'." 

"I don't know if 'sweet' is the word I'd use to describe the odor." 

"Neither of us have bathed in a very long time," Miss pointed out. 

He grimaced in embarrassment. "Yeah, yeah. You're right." 

They fell back into companionable silence as they finished their meal. When Miss was done she wiped her hands on her dress and then picked up the book. Wilson was still being very careful not to crowd Miss, but when two people lived in each other's back pockets for three weeks it tended to drastically speed the process of growing comfortable in close quarters. She spread the loose book on her lap and made no move to hide it when he glanced over, so he scooted towards her on the log for a better look (close, but not touching). Ruler-straight lines of neat blue script filled the pages (of _course_ her handwriting would be such to make a Catholic nun weep. Wilson's handwriting could cause tears as well but for _very_ different reasons). She turned the leaves until she found a half-blank one towards the middle. The header read (in her elegant script) "Trades with His Majesty the King", with a log of how much meat she traded to him and how much gold she got in return. The accountant training in him itched to get into her books (not that balancing them would be even remotely possible) but she was clearly doing all right on her own and he didn't want her to think that he didn't trust her judgement. Wilson cast his mind about for something to distract himself with. 

"Why didn't you give my name? I mean, we haven't known each other for long, did you... forget?" 

"I did not forget, Wilson Percival Higgsbury," that look where she smiled without smiling, amused at her own private joke. "I didn't have your permission to give it out, and besides they wouldn't remember it." 

There was an interesting locked box. Her knowing this implied that she may have judged the simple, occasionally murderous pigmen worthy of her name while Wilson remained unworthy (it was his father's voice, this time, and he shoved it back into the shadows of his mind where it belonged). It also meant she wasn't going to play fast and loose with his name when he didn't know hers. 

"Come to think of it, the ones I worked with before never could remember 'Wilson' even though they didn't have trouble with each other's names." He shrugged. "I always assumed they thought I wasn't going to be around for long so why bother learning?" 

Miss mirrored his shrug. "They usually just call us 'friend', so long as we don't try to attack them. Though if you do something particularly interesting they will give you a title." 

"Oh? What's yours? I-if you don't mind me asking." 

She stared at him for a long time and he was just about to apologize for prying when she finally spoke. 

"Blood Flower." 

"I... Huh." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, that does suit you very well!" 

"Why, what an insulting thing to say to a lady!" 

Wilson's flat reply met her fake outrage (laid on so thick rocks could pick up on it), "Miss, you embroider deadly plants on the things you put your daily nourishment into. I'd personally go with Raven Queen, for symbolism and status, but Blood Flower certainly fits in context." 

"You'd call me Raven Queen?" Miss was decidedly pleased with this news. "What would my royal crown be made of?" 

"I'll have to think about that." 

She nodded and, after stowing her empty skewers in the bag and gathering up her ledger and writing utensils, stood and nodded towards the three stalls that comprised the trading district of the village. Wilson followed suit but then paused in the process of getting up (which given the weakness in his hip meant he ended up right back on his arse). Miss looked down at him with vague concern. 

"Are you quite all right?" 

"Huh? Oh, yes, that's all fine. Or as fine as it can get right now." Wilson frowned. "I just realized... you know my middle name. I don't remember giving you my middle name." 

Back to that unreadable blank. "You were quite distressed when I first met you." 

"Well, true, it's just... I usually give it as an initial. I'm not really fond of the name, you know?" 

"I will refrain from using it in the future, Mr. Higgsbury." 

He opened his mouth, and closed it. "Yeah. I was really out of it." (he could _swear_ he remembered every second of that meeting in drug sharpened clarity, but then again how could he trust his own senses under those circumstances?) 

"With that mystery solved, we have shopping to do." 

It didn't take long for Miss to get what she wanted. While she took care of that Wilson browsed the small marketplace (three small stalls, two more pigs set up on blankets, one with a rickety cart). The goods were mostly flora or fauna (or a combination of the two in the case of the flesh-eating bulb with the roots wrapped in damp cloth). Vegetables and fruits (though there weren't as many as those, with winter underway), leather and bone (no meat, unsurprising given how much they valued it), and even a couple uprooted berry bushes. There were also some signs of industry, with a few bolts of the heavy canvas on prominent display, a stone bowl full of spearheads, and the pigman with the rickety cart had three different varieties of stone blocks. A tiny market by the standards of, say, London, but a bustling hub of activity by the island's standards given that in any other village Wilson had seen the market consisted of a single pig standing outside their house shouting about trade. 

Miss was suddenly at his elbow (she did this so often he was already almost not surprised when she abruptly appeared) with a small bolt of canvas in the crook of her elbow and a couple large eggplants in the basket looped over her other arm. Two small bags sat beside the eggplants, one made of canvas and one made of shimmering silk. 

"Cloth for repairs of the tents and construction of a sturdy bag for you," Miss listed as Wilson looked her purchases over, "nightshades for dinner, a handful of seeds, and a few gem shards." 

Wilson held out his free arm and the bolt of canvas was unceremoniously dumped into it. "That would be a wise move, with the bag. Since I can't move fast being a proper mule would be the most useful thing to do." He found a semi-comfortable position to carry the fabric and nodded to Miss, who led the way out of the village. "I get the rest of it, but what are the gems for?" 

"I am not the most skilled at effective technical explanations. You will have to wait until I begin the project." 

"I--huh. Okay, fair enough." 

Instead of going back the way they came Miss led them around the other side of the lake. A stone bridge which looked as ancient as anything (but still reasonably solid) snaked along the fifty or so feet where lake met sheer cliff wall. Immediately on the other side stood a graveyard. It wasn't the first graveyard Wilson had come across in this place, but it certainly was larger than most. The markers were more varied as well, some being the plain gray stone as with the other cemeteries and some in the dark or light stones of the mountains, one or two of marble, even a couple made of crumbling rotted wood. While scanning the sight Wilson spotted one that said 'WPH' and he quickly looked away. It was not the first grave he'd found with his name on it (Wilson hoped he'd _never_ understand what was going through Maxwell's twisted mind), but it never got any less unsettling to look at. In the process of studiously not looking in that direction, however, his eyes found another chipped rock and he couldn't help but laugh. 

"Well, I don't know why it says this, but that's my favorite element." 

Miss looked over, curiously, at the grave decorated only with the number '82'. "How does a number indicate an element?" 

"The atomic number. Okay," Wilson started gesturing with his hands (and damn the nagging voice of his mother saying it was unrefined), grinning while he explained, "in chemistry the elements are all ordered by atomic number. Well, eighty-second in line is _lead_. Which is a useful element on its own, but it's my favorite because of it's association with early advancements in science as we know it today." 

"How so?" In spite of being muted as always, Miss seemed genuinely interested. 

"The alchemists! While it certainly wasn't the only ongoing research they attempted it is one of the ideas that made it into these modern times. The idea of turning lead into gold, I mean. And while their literal attempts to do so failed, _metaphorically_ they succeeded." 

Miss was now leaning forward against a gravestone (the engraving read "on my honor I will try"), her crossed arms resting on the tree carved into the top. "And how might that be so?" 

"Discovery!" Wilson spread his arms wide. "They didn't turn lead to gold, not really, but they _did_ discover properties of elements and did other research which led to future advances in science. Lead to gold, right?" 

Suddenly self-conscious of his fervor, Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets. Miss just nodded, though, an thoughtful look on her doll's face. 

"A fine story and a fine figurative twist." 

Wilson grinned again, relief at the lack of judgement nearly overwhelming. "What would your favorite element be, then?" 

"The element of despair." 

He chuckled, devoid of the nervousness he'd had when encountering her brand of dark joke in the first week. Maybe it was just the intense loneliness but he already found her morbid humor endearing. When Wilson glanced her way in one of those perfect moments of clarity he saw a small group of crows in a distant white birchnut tree, the twisted thorny vines dotting the shore, and this pale slip of a girl standing among the graves. 

"I know what your crown would be made of," he blurted. 

"My what?" 

"Oh, earlier. We were talking about you being the Raven Queen, right?" 

She tilted her head, bright curiosity dancing in her eyes. "And what would that crown be, then?" 

"A nest of brambles, except it's black wood carved to look like that, or maybe silver and jet? The centerpiece, like the main gem, would be a bleached raven skull." He sketched it in the air with his hands. "A black veil over your face and something that goes over your hair made of the black feathers." 

"Violent. Elegant." Something in her sad grey eyes looked truly fond and almost happy for just a moment. "I like it." 

Even though she never gave away a smile he beamed all the way back to camp. 

It happened a week after their trip to the pig king's court. 

Miss sat on a blanket with her back to her crafting table, the tub sitting next to her full of clean water and coils of trimmed and dyed reeds, softening so that they would easily weave into the gathering basket she was making for trade. The pigmen villagers took a liking to Miss's reed and grass baskets, particularly the colorful ones. Today it was sunny yellow and pale green with berry pink ribs, already half-finished in her steadily working hands. She typically reserved the patternd baskets for trade but Wilson found himself encouraging her to be frivolous with the functional ones they kept (always a need for more stores, more _things_ , more ways to survive). Miss clearly enjoyed her work more if she could make it unnecessarily pleasing to look at. 

(a part of him still wrung its hands over wasting time on pretty baskets that could be spent on trying to escape, but damn it all they needed to remind themselves they were human from time to time) 

Wilson, meanwhile, was checking up on an experiment. He sat at the desk he'd set up in the corner by his tent (the trick, he told Miss, was the triangle, as long as he crossed the trimmed branches into a triangle lattice it would make a sturdy foundation for the driftwood top). He was attempting to determine the most efficient dilution of spider venom to be used as an antiseptic. At full strength it would paralyze, too diluted and it would leave infection to fester, but somewhere between there was a happy medium where it still disinfected but wasn't so strong as to cause the muscles to lock up and the skin to rash. Not to mention that if he could find the minimum effective concentration they could make their harvested venom glands stretch farther, requiring fewer trips out to kill the creepy bastards (did they have to be all mouth and fang? was that _really_ necessary?). The preliminary experiment involved little uneven bowls (some of Miss's earlier attempts, deemed asymmetrical enough to sacrifice to this cause) with numbers painted onto the rims. They stood in a neat row across the back of Wilson's makeshift desk. A small piece of bird-meat sat in each, swimming in a pool of venom at varying dilutions. The far left one, the control, and the two next to it were already starting to turn fuzzy. He scratched out his observations in a table (no need to record his notes in a cypher with handwriting as unreadable as his). 

Miss murmured something as she worked on her basket and Wilson nodded absently, eyes still on his work. "It _is_ getting a little windy. It might mean snow's blowing in." 

"That is not what I said." 

"Oh, ah, sorry!" Wilson carefully set down his equipment, wiped his hand on a bit of scrap felt, and turned towards her. She moved her work from her lap to the table and stood as he flustered. "I get focused, you know, and... Sorry, what did you say?" 

She smoothed her skirts, a nervous habit of hers. Miss was always stoic, statuesque even, but Wilson learned her tells quickly enough out of sheer necessity. He couldn't read her like a book by any means but he could clearly see the way she struggled with herself. It was written in her downturned eyes, the slight tension in her jaw, the way her breaths were precisely and unnaturally even. He sat there, hands loose in his lap. He wanted to press, to ask again, but the moment was somehow... fragile. Like if he so much as twitched it would shatter and they'd never get it back. 

When she did speak it was barely a breath, as if the moment seemed just as fragile to her. But this time Wilson was paying attention, so quiet as she was he heard her loud and clear. 

"Wendy. It is my name." 

"I--oh! I see?" Wilson scrambled up from his ramshackle chair to more effectively gawk at her. "I mean... thank you? I mean... Hello, Wendy. Miss Wendy." Struck more than a little silly by the sudden show of trust, he added, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," punctuated by an awkward kneel befitting the king of all pork. 

"Greetings, Mr. Higgsbury." Her curtsy, of course, was flawless as it always was. If he hadn't spent a month in close quarters with her then he never would have noticed the softness in her eyes that was as close as she ever got to a smile. "Hello, Wilson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise guys I bet you didn't expect her name to be Wendy. It kind of looks like I'm falling into an every week and a half schedule for updates, so I guess start expecting that for the time being.


	12. A Related Study on the Nature and Habits of Pack Animals

When the first cold spring rains came, Wilson pulled on the belted poncho of tentacle unmentionables and waxed canvas (he made the poncho and then Miss Wendy embroidered the thorny vine of roses along the edge). He stood just outside the courtyard and stared out as the downpour washed away what little slush was left. He took a deep breath, taking in the wet earth and the still tiny green shoots appearing as the last of the slush melted and washed away. 

They survived winter. 

(taking him in didn't lead to her death. or his) 

The focus shifted from mere survival to replenishing their stores. The jars of pickled vegetables and greens were nearly depleted as was the honey and the berry preserves. Unfortunately the kept bees shared springtime aggression with their wild cousins so that was out (fair enough anyway as the bees would have to replenish their own pantries). The rabbit holes caved in, unable to maintain structural integrity in the heavy rain, and so any stray mole they found went from burrow to pot to stomach with no chance to preserve much of anything in terms of meats. The plants, though, they could work on in spring. Miss Wendy foraged along her usual paths, tending to transplanted berry bushes and finding the carrots and beets hidden among the debris beneath the trees. Wilson wasn't able to move as fast as she did as she darted around spying the odd edible root, so he poured his energies into building a proper garden. A handful of identical seeds were planted in neat rows to sprout into identical cabbage-ish looking plants which when ripe opened to reveal vegetables that typically grew on vines or stalks or in the ground. Wilson also planted a few flowerbeds near their corner of the ruins. The wildflowers might smell like horribly cheap perfume but they soothed the nerves (and they did look rather nice clustered in a rambling bed). 

The flowers turned out to be particularly useful. When the rain came it brought a building ache in Wilson's bad leg and it bothered him to the point of distraction (to the point of flickering things in the corner of his eye) and one day to Miss Wendy walked up and dropped a flower crown on his head without ceremony or explanation. He felt a little silly wearing it (and at first only kept it on to humor her), but the steadying of his nerves he felt when he worked among the fragrant flowers followed him wherever he went. It was hard to say without direct comparison, but it seemed as though the flower crown was more effective at dispersing the fragrant compound than the sachet he'd made for himself back at his old base. Wilson expected to see his crown's cousin bobbing about soon enough, but Miss Wendy abstained from making herself a crown, instead relying on grilled green mushrooms (abundant in the rain) or making a broth from the strings of dried ones she had in reserve. 

"Why don't you just wear a flower crown as well?" he asked her, looking at the greenish broth sideways (his abdominal pain seemed to spike). 

"I am in mourning." 

"Oh, I, um, I'm sorry?" 

(she offered no further explanation and by that point he knew better than to ask for one) 

(knowing her she could be mourning a person from her life before, or the skeletons littering the island, or her whole existence, so pondering the matter wasn't going to get him anywhere) 

(even though it and so many other questions needled at him) 

All things considered they were in a very good place. Surprising, given Wilson was an unexpected house guest, but prior to meeting him Miss Wendy managed to squirrel away enough food to last two people through the winter. Wilson talked about it (mainly talking to himself but in her vicinity), how much more efficient they should be combining strengths and sheer labor hours, how much more time they'd be able to spend searching for a way out. Life was, well, still miserable given the setting, but far more hopeful than the year before. Bright. Sunny. 

Though, as with anything, not everything was sunshine. 

(actually, things were very much sunshine and growing hotter with each passing day, so really it would be more accurate to say that not everything was the gentle cloudy warmth of a dry day in early spring. Wilson would gladly take the drenching rain over the already boiling heat of early summer) 

While Miss Wendy was out on her own one morning (as much as companionship was important they both needed their solitude on occasion... her more often than him, but as much as it unsettled his nerves he never followed her and worked hard not to resent her for it. he was successful at that. mostly) Wilson fashioned a passable straight razor from a bit of flint. This, at least, was a civilized skill the wilderness had not taken from him, and even bereft of a mirror he successfully gave himself a reasonably close shave with nary a nick. He left the matted length that he sawed off first and the shorter tangle that was the second stage each on their own piece of papyrus on the table as he retreated back to his tent to scrub his face with a blanket in lieu of a proper towel. He stepped lighter (in spite of the persisting limp) since he _felt_ lighter without that mess weighing him down. Also it was much too hot already and the rains were still pouring down every other day. He'd probably die of heat stroke if he went into true summer with such a heavy beard. 

Granted, Wilson hadn't bothered to shave the summer before (or the one before that and even Before his grooming habits had gone sporadic) but that was when he was on his own and could compensate by laying shirtless under a tree and soaking his beard in pond water. He got the feeling that doing so again would make Miss Wendy decidedly uncomfortable. Wilson also felt more self-conscious about the way his ribs stuck out (not as starkly as they once did, at least), and then there were the scars. When he was the only one on the island (aside from Maxwell, but if he saw all then he already knew so why bother hiding) it didn't matter much if Wilson left his gloves off for most of the summer. That, obviously was not an option this year, so other preparations must be made. 

While he was in his tent he heard his flatmate's soft call and approach shortly followed by the 'thump' of something heavy hitting bare dirt. Wilson exited the tent like a shot, flint knife in hand, to be met with the sight of a sack of rocks spilling over the ground and Miss Wendy standing there looking at the tangle of black hair with a new form of unreadable emotion on her face. At the huff of breath (jumping up like that was not particularly good for his leg) she glanced at him. 

"Where did _that_ come from?" An accusing finger jabbed in the direction of the mess. 

Since he was standing there clearly clean-shaven (and he felt so much more human with that mess gone) the corner of Wilson's mouth quirked up. "I made them with my face." 

" _Apparently_." Miss Wendy pointedly ignored the pile and inspected his appearance. The unhappy look in her eyes got a smidge softer. "I must admit, this does suit you." 

"Thank you," Wilson beamed. He felt more suitable in general. Amazing how much a little self-grooming could do for one's nerves. "Now I just need to find something to keep the cut hair in..." 

For the first time in their acquaintance he saw the shadow of horror in Miss Wendy's face. "You're _keeping_ it?" 

"Well, you never know what might be..." (a flash of long buried and long ignored information, meat and wood and hair configured into an unscientific illogical abomination) "... useful." 

Miss Wendy leaned away from the pile of matted mess on papyrus on his desk. "Fair." Her nose wrinkled. "I suppose." 

"I'll keep it over here by my things." 

" _Please_ do." 

That was nothing major, though it was interesting to learn that there was something that disgusted her even though she kept a small collection of small animal skulls and was generally obsessed with death (maybe a tad insulting that it was his hair that caused such disgust). It didn't register as anything much at all. Nor did the tiff about the best fishing pole, or the accidental tampering of an experiment, or a dozen other piddling conversations. It wasn't until Miss Wendy showed him what the shards she bartered from the pigmen were for that Wilson realized that something was wrong. 

Kind of hard to miss it at that point. 

"So, you are telling me," Wilson said in that tone which is not quite a yell but it had aspirations to be one and was working its way there fast, "that the traps which are our last line of defense," he swept his hand wide in the direction of the courtyard and the minefield beyond, "are nothing more than pressure triggers and bits of mineral?" 

She answered slowly and through gritted teeth. "The impact of the trigger shatters the sliver of blue gemstone and releases the energy within. It has only one use but it will encase whatever steps on it in ice, immobilizing it for a short time." 

"Then why don't you use these nonsense traps in the hound field?" Wilson gestured wildly in the vague direction of the patch of ground (a rough twelve foot diameter circle) heavily laden with _sensible_ mechanical spike traps. "If these gem traps are supposedly so superior then why don't you use them everywhere?" 

"These _are superior_ , and thus the materials are far rarer than the sticks and teeth." Miss Wendy jabbed a finger at the scattered half-assembled devices on her table. "I will not waste these on mere hounds." 

"Is that what you think that, what was it, green gem on a stick in the armory chest is? Some kind of magic wand?" 

"I think that's what it is because that _is_ what it _is_." 

"Then why don't you fire off a round and prove me wrong?" 

"Above ground even the red and blue gems are rare, let alone those from the deep, and magic requires a price which I am not willing to pay so soon after succumbing to the sun's heat!" 

”You wouldn't have gotten heat stroke if you didn't insist in wandering off on your own all the bloody time!" 

Her whole face flushed with anger and her voice rose far beyond her usual quiet volume. "I will not waste a charge of the staff--or my own sanity--in the service of your denial!" 

" _Magic isn't real_!" 

" _Then how did you **get** here_!?" 

It wasn't so much the dangerous question that stunned Wilson to silence as it was the sheer force behind it (the mountain's face echoed the words back at them). For once Miss Wendy's emotions were anything but hidden (hands balled up into fists at her sides shaking, whole body trembling, fire in her eyes instead of a blank steel wall). Stunned as he was though the momentum of his anger was stronger. Wilson glared at her for a full minute (he counted out the seconds in his head) and then threw his hands up in disgust. He stalked out, his uneven steps taking him to the edge of the ruins before the muggy heat caught up with him. 

"Bollocks." 

He lingered as long as he dared, always wary of the dull ache in the vicinity of his kidneys and how much more damaging dehydration would be after his go with the greencaps. He made his slow way back and then the two of them pretended, very badly, that nothing was wrong. 

(is whatever moral compass, whatever ideal she spited by taking him in, is it stronger than how much he irritated her?) 

(did Miss Wendy hate him?) 

It's just that there wasn't as much to do, Wilson supposed as he glumly got ready for bed, Miss Wendy even more silent than usual and beyond arm's length at all times. In winter they had to keep moving to hunt and gather firewood, in spring they had to scramble to forage and farm, but with summer creeping ever closer it was too hot to work. For safety they had to be still, they had to lay under the canopy or under the trees and do nothing but breathe and stew with nothing to occupy their hands. Before their debates were civil. They were fun! Now, with time enough for them to really get to know each other beyond another set of hands, now they bickered and sniped at each other nearly every time they spoke. 

(a distant, deep piece of him knew that the beard hair and the fishing pole and the experiment were nothing major. little tiffs of the same caliber as that he experienced living with Jules. irritating one another is a basic part of being a human in a group with other humans. she didn't seem to mind either, beyond simple annoyance, until it came to this) 

(Wilson would _not_ believe in magic. he couldn't. not even if it offended Miss Wendy on some fundamental level) 

(maybe something would happen and Miss Wendy would try, and fail, to use one of her magic things in the service of escape, and then they could be done with this nonsense) 

(a smaller, rebellious voice buried somewhere in the back of Wilson's mind whispered, what if, what if she tried and _didn't_ fail)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear! I swear I've been writing 300 - 500 words about every other day on this thing but the chapter is so big now I'm going to have to chop it into three pieces to make it manageable. We're also in the last week before my outlet shuts down for remodel and the restaurant I'm working in while we're closed is MUCH slower paced so I shouldn't be so burned out when I get home. Thank you guys for sticking with me!


	13. Bury it Deep, the Hatchet in My Hand

**This whole first part is an extended trigger warning and covers quite a bit, so be warned!**

I just wanted to put down an advance warning of such for things that won't be going on in A Study but will be going on further on in The Long Game, the series that A Study is the start of. You've already seen some of it in Wilson being depressed and also being aware of how he could come off to a tiny woman, and more of the like will be going on in the future. Depression and mental illness in general, sexism and how it manifests (including the uncomfortable issues of sexual assault and abortion), the joys of being anything but straight, PTSD in relation to WWI and also in general, and so on will be at least discussed if not part of main plot points. 

There are some issues of the times (both their times and ours) that won't be covered as extensively. Some things like racism or transphobia will probably be touched on but not covered deeply since I am white and cis and it's not my place, I’ve learned a lot about these issues but I’ll never be able to truly portray them as a central point since I’ve never experienced those prejudices firsthand. But while I don’t want it to be a central focus for those reasons I don't want to deny that racism and transphobia are things that existed then, or now. 

I feel like this is important for three major reasons. One, is that prettifying the past can lead to some horrible things. The Victorian age up to the Roaring 20s is my period of history that i'm inexplicably obsessed with (everyone seems to have one or two). And while I love the bustle dresses and technological innovations I don't want to lose sight of the realities of the ages. Abortion and contraception and the many debates and laws and so on surrounding them are major parts of women's history, for example, which cannot be swept under the rug just because it's easier to focus on the pretty parts. Or things like how the suffragettes were mostly white women campaigning for the white right to vote, and while the trials and horrors they suffered in the name of their cause were a big deal and should definitely be remembered, it should also be remembered that by and large they spit on black women who tried to join. 

I mean, when I asked a friend to proofread this I talked about some of the things that went on back then, and even though she's better versed than most in the crap women have been through she had no idea that in this time period women who were declared insane (which could take a little as talking back) often were forced to have hysterectomies, or the extent of forced sterilization that women and non-white women in particular have endured in the western world. 

And the thing is that more people are going to read a fic or watch a TV show than read a history book. That's not even commentary on people not reading anymore or anything, it's just that there is _so much history_ to go though. Even if you pick a specific decade, particularly when it's a time with as much change as the 1900s or the 20s, or a specific topic like women’s history, it's endless. I have a book just about the birth and early operation of the telegraph. I have a book just on the history of salt. I have a book on the evolution of swearing and cursing through the ages, and I have a book that is specifically about the ways WWII soldiers swore and cursed. I'm the type to go after enough of these books that my bookcase shelves have a serious bow to them, and even though I focus so much on how things were in the 1900-1920s range it was still a TV show (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries) that clued me into the forced hysterectomy thing. 

The second reason is that these issues aren't something banished to the distant past (forced sterilizations didn't stop in the roaring 20s, not by a long shot). The things that I really zero in on like women's rights and mental health and not being heterosexual in general, those are things that I personally am dealing with. And we've made progress, but I live in the USA. And right now the people with the power to do so seem happy to burn all our progress down. When we ignore the bad parts of the past we don't learn from them and it doesn't seem like a big deal to throw all our civil liberties in the trash. Anti-vaxxers never had to live in a world with polio so they don’t bother to understand how bad of a world vaccines saved them from. 

It's good to like the aesthetic or be fascinated by the history of a time period, but we need to be aware of what was going on underneath the glamor of 'the good old days'. Underneath the pretty corseted dress is a child darting between dangerous machines to pick up bits of string and fluff. Underneath the propaganda posters of victorious men in uniform were hundreds and thousands of terrified boys deliberately not firing at anyone on the other side of no man's land because they never asked to be there and they didn’t want to kill anyone. It’s like the Hamilton debate, the show is rad but the actual founding fathers were white racist slave owners of varying degrees of awful. These issues were important at the time and even if the same exact thing isn't going on now then its descendant is. Before it was that a wife consented to anything when she married so even if she said no the husband could not be charged with rape, now it's a woman consents to anything when she wears a short skirt and she’s put on trial instead of her attacker. 

How we portray different subjects and elements of history in our media matters. It matters a _lot_. No story exists in a vacuum, without the context of the time and place of its setting or creation. Sanitizing history because the uncomfortable bits make us uncomfortable is, ultimately, a very harmful thing to do. And ignoring it in fiction, ignoring it in history, ignoring it when it’s happening around you because denial is safer than confronting the ugly things you yourself have picked up… on the small scale it leads to things like bullying. On the large scale it leads to things like genocide. You can’t avoid picking a side by staying quiet. Silence is not staying out of it. Silence is a statement. 

It's dark stuff, but I feel like Don't Starve is the place for it. Sure, the darkness in the game tends towards the safer, less real shadow creatures and ideas about selling your soul, but these people needed to have reasons to make deals with the figurative devil. And given the way the world worked in the time this was set (or even today) some of the reasons they had must have related to this real life dark stuff in one way or another. While I haven't come out and said it in narrative I think I've made it obvious that at least one of the the pieces of myself I gave to Wilson was my depression (Wilson: Gee! Thanks!) and even coming from a family well off enough to send him to medical school he's not going to get much help for that in that time period. I can't even find good help for that in 2017. 

And the third reason... basically, when I write my characters have to make it through hell to get to their happy ending, and I think with this story I'm finally realizing it's coming from a subconscious desire to see people who are broken being able to work past it and have happy endings in spite of being broken, as a means of maybe convincing myself I can do the same. Writing this is cathartic in a visceral way. Which again seems fitting for a game where a tormented woman who never asked for any of this will kill you with darkness from the inside out. 

So, there are a lot of reasons why I won’t be taking that stuff out, and I wanted to be up front about it. This is coming _really_ dark and soul baring but then again so is the fic, just in a less direct way. I don't want to spoil a lot right now but I just wanted a heads up before the spoiler tags became a thing on future parts of this series. These topics will come up, mostly in conversation or otherwise thinking back to the past, so if you might be triggered by them to the point of wanting off this ride entirely then I wanted to give you fair warning before you get any deeper into this. 

So yeah! Let’s return to the ‘going through hell’ part with Wilson. 

***************************************** 

Things were tenuous, but on matters of survival they still agreed (except in the case of those expensive wind up toy traps, but at least it seemed that the ruins' effects held the larger beasts at bay, and the hounds were easy enough to deal with, so the lack of proper coverage shouldn't do any harm). They gardened and gathered and hunted and trapped and by the time summer was so resolutely there that they could barely do anything without risking injury Wilson at least felt confident that, while they would doubtlessly disagree on how to go about it, they could both agree that they wanted to _leave_. If they started moving towards that goal, even in the planning stage mumbled back and forth while they lay there drowsily doing nothing, then maybe it would keep them busy enough to get away from this tension between them. At least a little bit. And besides, it was _necessary_ so even if it was still uncomfortable they still had to do it. It was the only plan that made sense. 

_Of course_ , getting her to go along with this plan was a little difficult. 

"You _are_ aware that we'll never get out of here if we don't _try_ , right?" 

For the first time since he limped out of his tent at dawn (half the day earlier) she looked at him, her big grey eyes equal parts disdainful, pitying, and coldly blank. "I am aware that you wandered drunk and half-starved through madness to reach me, while I stood so prepared that taking on a boarder at winter's birth did not threaten my survival." 

Wilson fought the urge to duck his head in embarrassment, forcing himself to stare her in the eye. "That's fair. I did reach too far and I didn't have enough saved elsewhere to survive on." He spread his arms wide, beseeching her, "I _was_ too reckless, absolutely, but you're being _too cautious_. We're never going to get out of here if we don't _try_." 

Miss Wendy looked away, her posture and tone the very avatar of dismissal. "I am well aware of that. I am also aware of the fact that if you continue to deny the existence of magic then you're never going to survive." 

It was only just getting cool enough to work, so he just walked away (well, stomped, best he could manage with his bad leg) to the wide stump and small collection of logs waiting to be separated into useful pieces. He did as he always did, funneling his frustration into something destructive yet productive. With pointedly abrupt movements he stripped the branches, peeled off the papery bark, and started splitting the logs into firewood. Swing, split, rotate, physically demanding but not mentally so. He could work on the farm next. And maybe some rope after that. 

Thunk went the logs as the axe hit true. Thunk and thump as the pieces hit the ground. Physics is what this was. Maths. This was something real, something with a definite answer. We swing the axe around in a wide overhead arc to maximize force with gravity's help. We use a sharp axe instead of a blunt hammer because the narrow edge concentrates all that downward force into a single thin line. We split the wood along the grain because it is much more efficient than fighting against it. Long, long ago humanity's ancestors were faced with the question of how to effectively use this fire they discovered, a lot of trial and error happened, and then it was eventually universally decided that this is what worked. 

As the body went through the motions so often repeated they'd become muscle memory, the mind ran rampant. Turn, thunk, thump. Predict, analyze, conclude. 

Wilson was so used to his gloves that he barely registered their existence anymore. Focusing on them made everything feel one step out of place, like forcing oneself to see their nose or be aware of how their tongue fit in their mouth. The once perfectly tailored gloves (came to just above the elbow, fingerless) fit a tad loose after however long it had been on the island. The gained muscle in his arms not making up for the lost weight. He managed to keep the leather somewhat conditioned by rubbing in hound-fat after every wave, though it was still nothing on the thin, butter-soft black kid in its former glory. Still, they were well crafted to start with and they handled the abuse very well. Within two weeks of receiving them Wilson learned how to take them on and off effortlessly, buttoning and unbuttoning the long line of tiny buttons with speed and accuracy, but nowadays he just left them on unless he absolutely had to take them off. Which, since meeting Wendy, meant rolling down his sleeves and either taking refuge in his tent or using the excuse of gardening to don the rough hide gloves she made him for that purpose. 

Miss Wendy asked (once, very early on in their acquaintance) about the gloves. Asked if they were protection for his experiments or a statement of a fashion she was yet unaware of. He stammered out nonsense and retreated like the coward he was, and she didn't ask about the gloves again. 

Wilson's mind spun. 

(did he want to hide the reason he first got them or the scar across the palm of his left hand? the old sin or the new? he never had to think on it too hard since she left the subject alone) 

(he appreciated her silence) 

(it's why, in spite of his innate thirst to _know_ , he didn't press about the glowing gem in her cuff, or the glowing red flower hovering six inches off the ground in her tent, or anything else he should have found out about because he was rooming with a lunatic) 

(but she didn't ask about the gloves, she didn't ask about what he was hiding, she didn't ask about how when things looked darkest he'd rub the hidden scar in his left palm, she didn't ask why he made the deal, she didn't pry, she let him _be_ ) 

(and deep down he knew what all this was about, why he could not accept her magic as legitimate. going against his better judgement, against the one thing that gave him direction, led to this. he turned his back on logic and scientific reasoning and listened to a voice on the radio when it told him to slice his hand open, and as his reward he got the scar on his hand, his gummy leg, the persisting abdominal pain, and the long horrible seasons spent in isolation with no real clue as to how long it had been) 

(and deeper down he knew that she was right. spitting in the face of all he had observed was nothing more than cowardly denial. he'd been on the outside looking in at supposed men of science who could not be proven wrong, even under the weight of a mountain of proof. how many doctors in school used easily disproven science to justify their ignorant disdain for women or any given ethnicity the great British Empire dominated?) 

(what was worse, acting in any way like those prejudiced fools or the shameful cowardice that led him to do it?) 

(was any of that worse than toiling away in a moldering attic pretending that any discovery could buy him re-entry into the social sphere he was cast out of? worse than pretending his parents would ever be happy with anything he did?) 

(oh, the worst part of it all was that sometimes Wilson wasn't sure if he wanted to go home) 

(that's not it. the worst part was that he was _certain_ that Miss Wendy didn't want to go home) 

(no, the worst part was that something went _so wrong_ in her life that she didn't want to escape the constant struggle to survive and vicious impossible creatures and endless isolation) 

(... no. no, the worst part was that he could name a dozen or more ways, off the top of his head, that the so called 'civilized' world could make a young woman's life abject hell. so much so that a lifetime in this place might seem tame by comparison) 

Thunk. Thump. There was no more wood to chop. 

Wilson loaded the firewood onto the sled and made his slow way back as dusk fell. As he approached the camp he called out a greeting and she returned, but they fell into silence after that (before they'd talk about their plans for the next day at the very least). He stacked the wood just so (taking much longer than he needed to) before putting the sled back in its place and making his zig-zag way through the minefield (a voice taunted, if they're not real why bother, why not prove her wrong that way?). Wilson expected it to be another uncomfortable evening working in separate corners, but as soon as he set his pack down Miss Wendy walked over and wordlessly thrust a bowl into his chest (harder than necessary, though still not _too_ hard given her persisting lack of real muscle). The hand not on his staff came up on instinct and he grabbed the thing by the rim. 

"The hell is this?" 

Her face blank as a smoothly plastered wall, "I'm poisoning you." 

Wilson studied Miss Wendy's face for a long moment, his own brows furrowed. Seriousness was required, was it not? The weight of his recent ponderings still hung in the air (like a huge boulder suspended above his head). But everything was serious, and this wasn't (though if he was to be murdered by his flatmate then poison would be the smartest way to go about it, and Miss Wendy was very smart). He shook the dark thoughts from his head before finally shrugging carelessly. "Well, it's about time if you ask me." 

"Long overdue, I agree." 

"Awfully foolish of you to wait this long. I mean," he gestured to himself (the shirt sticking to his skin from the sweat), to her (her mass of hair up in a haynest of a bun instead of her usual low pigtails), and to the sky (the sun beating down on them on it's climb to the apex), "it is nearly summer. If you killed me in winter I wouldn't have been a drain on your resources." 

"I made a calculated risk." It was her turn to shrug, a gesture Wilson could not remember seeing prior. "The arts have always been my favored domain." 

"I'll help you with the maths." 

"I'll help you with the words." 

"Better get on that quick! Since, you know," he lifted the bowl as if in a toast, "you have a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it." 

"I am aware. A hopeless case, truly, but at least I provided you with a sweet end." 

Wilson finally took a closer look at what was in his hand. A standard red-clay unglazed bowl (burnished on the inside to make it a little less porous and a little less hard to clean) filled with chunks of a dark brown substance. Smears of it decorated the inside of the bowl (something soft then, with a lot of moisture). 

"Oh, did you find a clay pit with a different shade of clay in it?" Wilson squinted at the stuff and wondered what the fired clay coloring would look like, and if the pigmen would be interested in bowls for trade (he'd seen red pottery in their village but no other color). 

"You're a silly boy," she chided. Wilson glared, though it lacked the heat of their earlier... discussion. "What you hold in your hand is not earth." 

"Well, technically," if Miss Wendy were the uncouth sort she'd be groaning at the word 'technically' (she learned quickly that in that tone that word mean Wilson was being an absolute ass on purpose), "the bowl is made of a specific kind of earth which has been put through an oven, so regardless of what's inside I _am_ holding earth." 

"Technically, you are behaving most vexingly." Annoyed, perhaps, but she didn't look genuinely upset at his teasing. 

It was nice, to poke fun without poking nerves. Wilson grinned, "Yeah, what you said." 

Miss Wendy rolled her eyes at him, annoyance showing through the mask. " _It consists of_ honey and ground roasted seed pods." 

"You're roasting in this heat? Are you mad?" He sniffed the bowl experimentally and then froze. "Miss Wendy?" 

"Yes, Mr. Higgsbury?" She seemed _very_ pleased with herself for someone who wasn't smiling (how the hell did she do that and more importantly _is this really_ ) 

Wilson looked up at her, equal parts hopeful, awed, and paranoid. "Is this... _chocolate_?" 

"I would never deprive you the chance to make an important scientific discovery yourself." 

Wilson stared at her for another heartbeat and then, halfway to reverently, picked up a piece from the bowl. While the substance (which _really smelled like chocolate_ ) held together in chunks they were sticky and soft and crumbled easily. He dropped his initial bit when it broke so he let it fall and licked his fingertips. There was enough honey to pick out the flavor, but not enough to stop it from being bitter, and beyond all that the familiar nutty, fruity, wonderful taste of chocolate. 

Practically in a trance, Wilson ate a smaller piece of it (just to be _sure_ ). The bitterness was not a problem, it added an element to the flavor that was not at all unpleasant. At length he remembered that words existed. Waving the bowl back and forth he looked at her with wide eyes, stuck somewhere between worry that it was all a dream and mounting elation. "How long have you had this!?" 

"The fruit has only recently ripened, and the pods have been fermenting and roasting. This is my first batch, I promise you this." 

"Okay. Yes, I believe you." (he did) "This is _incredible_." Wilson remembered his manners in between rich, delicious bites, "Oh, sorry!" and held the bowl out to her. 

"I give you my thanks," Miss Wendy said quite graciously as she picked up a chunk. The image of smug propriety was somewhat ruined when she took a bite and closed her eyes to savor the richness. After a few minutes of both of them slowly taking tiny, lasting bites, she leaned into his side just the slightest bit. Wilson fought the urge to throw an arm around her shoulders for fear of startling her or giving her the wrong idea (the way he felt about her wasn't quite like a little sister, but in moments like this when she seemed so intensely lonely he couldn't help but think of Vizzie). So they sat together companionably slowly eating her (phenomenal) peace offering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness that took a while! I'm hitting the issue again where a chapter keeps getting bigger without ever finishing, plus getting done with closing our outlet down and moving to a new one for the duration of remodeling. I know it was a lot of words and a lot of warnings in that first bit, but I hope I won't scare everyone off! Thank you for reading!


	14. A Dollop of Denial in a Disappearing Spoon

After finishing her first morsel of chocolate Miss Wendy moved away (if Wilson leaned after her for half a heartbeat it didn't mean anything, just instinct and nothing more). Wilson took a moment to sit down in his desk chair (he needed to save his leg as much as possible in case they needed to run). Miss Wendy leaned against the wall by his desk, and they finished the bowl of chocolate in comfortable silence (a welcome change from the tension so thick you could cut it with a dull axe). At length, the bowl scraped out as best they could manage, Miss Wendy stared out at the unseen horizon. Wilson followed her gaze, unsure of what it was she was seeing in the dark of the night but unwilling to break this new, fragile truce. She was the one who started peace talks in earnest, with a heavy sigh and hands clasped and fidgeting. 

"Were I to say say something to you, would I have the promise that you hear me through before you respond?" She still looked out at nothing (or everything), and she just sounded so _tired_. 

Wilson's gaze lacked an edge (sharpening after every fight, laid aside now between the peace offering and his own conclusions), but still he was wary. "What are you going to say?" 

Miss Wendy turned to him, her tone even but still worn far beyond her years. "Just listen, please, and attempt to be entertained." 

He nodded slowly and she moved away from the wall to stand towards the center of camp. The gentle flicker of the firefly lantern light danced across her porcelain doll features, and something in her shifted. Outside of heavy physical exhaustion or heat stroke her posture was always perfect, and yet even though she already stood at her tallest she somehow seemed to get bigger. Maybe it was how she lifted her chin just a bit, or perhaps she squared her shoulders. Or perhaps there was just always something in her larger than life waiting behind the mask. 

"Imagine, if you will, a small table and two stools on a spotlit stage." Usually she'd hold her skirts or claps her hands when she spoke, something he never consciously noticed until she started moving them with her words. "On it are a small covered bowl of sugar, a steeping teapot, and two teacups with saucers. All made of clear glass, though the sugar spoon is metal. When the curtain dances away the magician steps out and begins to introduce himself, but his voice cracks and trails away into nothing. It soon becomes apparent why..." she pantomimed coughing, her hands over her mouth, then suddenly moved as though she dropped something and was trying to catch it, "...as he coughs up the living frog in his throat. The frog is dropped into his top hat and vanished away so that the magician may continue with the show. He clears his throat," she frowns, putting a hand to her neck as though fixing a tie, "and says he's never been a fan of frog legs, and that he fancies a nice cup of tea to take the slimy taste out of his mouth." 

Wilson was still not a fan of magicians, but he had to admit (as he smothered a snort of laughter) that did sound like a way to make an entrance. A bit childish, really, but it would appeal to a younger audience. 

Miss Wendy continued on. "The magician calls for a volunteer, seating them at the table before taking the other stool. He talks about the importance of tea in the British culture, for he is performing for an American audience, and asks the volunteer to inspect his table setting. They open the clear glass teapot, fragrant steam billows out, and the volunteer confirms that it is indeed tea. They inspect the cups and find them to be teacups, a bit unusual in being made of clear glass but of the standard size and shape. At his direction they lick a finger and tap it to the sugar to taste it, and it is indeed sweet. The sugar spoon is tapped on the table and confirmed to be a solid metal spoon. All is well. The magician asks the volunteer to pour the tea, his hands in the air," her hands rose in mock surrender, "to ensure he's not tampering with the teapot. And after all it is perfectly clear glass, so if there were some hidden compartment the volunteer would see, would they not?" 

In spite of himself (and mostly due to how good of a storyteller Miss Wendy was), Wilson found himself genuinely wanting to know how this trick ended. He leaned forward without thinking about it, intent on her words. 

"The magician takes his cup and drinks half quick as you please, and declares that he seems to have oversteeped the tea. A disappointment to his heritage, really, but the bitterness is nothing a little sugar won't fix. He pours more tea into his own teacup and advises the volunteer to add a spoonful of sugar to their own cup, stirring well to fully dissolve the sweetness. However, when they stir the sugar into the steaming tea the spoon, previously confirmed as real, solid metal, melts to nothing to the great surprise of the volunteer." 

Wilson leaned back, a little disappointed, though he held his tongue. Miss Wendy, however, tilted her head at him and rolled her eyes. 

"Yes?" 

"No, continue, it's fine." 

She stood there, silent and waiting. 

"Oh, fine, it's just," Wilson rubbed his jaw, "it's gallium. The spoon, I mean. Gallium is a metal that's solid at room temperature but only just, so it'll melt in hot water." He shrugged. "No more magic than mercury, or quicksilver as it used to be called, just a metal with a lower melting point than most." 

To his surprise, instead of being upset or annoyed Miss Wendy did that thing where she smiled with her eyes and nothing else. 

"My uncle would have loved to have you as his volunteer. He spoke often about his wish that one night, one show, the person across from him wouldn't have to guess at how he did it." 

Wilson tilted his head back at her, confused. "What are you talking about?" 

"He'd ask the volunteer, who were usually quite stunned, what they thought happened. If the volunteer is not in a guessing mood he asks the audience to help them. Acid is the usual hypothesis, but then this magician drank half a cup and suffered no ill effects. Perhaps, someone would always offer, the sugar was not sugar at all but rather a powdered form of a powerful acid. But the volunteer tasted a bit and it had no ill effects on them. Some would suggest a trick spoon, but it was metal, we all heard it clang, and then the magician would hold the teacup high, and he would tell them about gallium." 

"Wait, wait," Wilson put his hand up to stop her (forgetting his promise to stay silent until he finished the thought), "he spoiled his own trick? Isn't the first rule of so called 'magic' to never reveal your secrets?" 

"Someone would always ask that, yes. And he'd put the cup down, bow to his volunteer and lead them back to their seat, and on the way back to the stage he would begin to speak of magic and science. For you see, until the trick of the spoon was revealed this little act was magic. But then he drew back the curtain, allowed the audience to see the wires and the dummy panels, and then it became science. And yet, it's still magic. The trick isn't ruined if you know how it's done." 

As Miss Wendy continued this speech her gaze shifted away from Wilson, out into the middle distance a little to his left (the imaginary audience, maybe?). Now she gestured grandly and with much flourish. Her voice was already pitched a tad deeper than one might expect from such a tiny young woman, but as she spoke it deepened a little more. Emulating this uncle of hers, no doubt (how many times did she see this show of his to have it so well memorized? how close were they? was he looking for his lost niece even as they spoke?). 

"Magic is anything we can't explain. Not so long ago in the course of human history the sun was a ball of flame held in the sky by one god or another. Now we know it to be, merely, a ball of flaming gas hanging in the depths of space... but how is that not magic too? If you went back to our early ancestors painting herds on cave walls and told them that one day we'd set fire to sand and grind it into a disc that would let us see far beyond the reaches of our eyes, if you told them that we would harness the fire that gave them so much trouble to learn to the point of caging it in our wooden homes with no real fear of it turning against us, if you told them that one day two people could communicate across a stretch of land farther than they could hope to walk in their lifetime by turning words into taps of a finger into tamed lightning and back again... what could that possibly be, except magic?" 

The last part rang uncomfortably true with Wilson. Though the telegraph had been well established by this modern day and age there were still plenty of people who didn't understand how it could possibly work. Back when he only knew Cecilia as a fast hand on the other end of the line with the signature 'CC' (which was still all he knew when he picked her up at the train station the first time they met in person, embarrassed to admit he expected a man while she just giggled, bright as spring, and said she was hoping to see that sort of look on his face, now then W.H. take me to that food cart you're always rambling about!), during downtime, they talked about the ignorance of customers, the people who worried about loose change being lost over the wires when they transferred money by telegram. 

He started out admittedly annoyed with this kind of customer, but over the course of weeks she scolded him through dits and dats and made him come to see that the job they did was well and truly _absurd_. That even half the operators didn't quite grasp the mechanics of it, let alone some poor soul who's worked in a cannery all their life with no way to climb beyond foreman due to the luck or unluck of their birth (after all, Wilson only knew about the gallium spoon due to extensive schooling and specifically in the sciences, which the majority of folks would not have the opportunity to experience). Why shouldn't they worry about change being lost when they wire money across an entire ocean? Why should the telegraph work at all? 

As Wilson reflected on lessons learned and friends well beyond his reach, Miss Wendy continued. "And even if we narrow our focus from all of the unknown universe, confine it to this stage on this night, why would it be any less incredible? I carried that frog out somehow, I am keeping it somewhere now, but even knowing there must be some trick, some slight of hand, isn't it incredible how we are such a clever race with all these great achievements to our name, and yet we can still be so easily fooled by nimble hands and smoke and mirrors? Isn't it wonderful to still have wonder in this age of technology? Isn't it amazing to still be amazed?" 

Miss Wendy finished with a flourish, one hand up in the air and the other stretched out towards him. Her arms dropped as the fond nostalgia in her tone and posture abruptly vanished, replaced with something too exhausted to be angry. "No one wants to be lectured about science and magic by a foreigner with Jewish features. He did very poorly." 

"I... oh." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck (the blunt bitterness in those last words so much simpler than her usual complex blankness, and added another layer to the possible reasons why she might not want to go back... ouch). "I'm sorry." 

She sighed. "He did find success, later on. He embraced the suspicion and remade his stage-self into a mildly sinister character with a greed for power, doing _real_ magic with no science in sight. No more melting spoons. No more peaks behind the curtain. The story people wanted to hear." 

It clearly saddened her that things turned out that way (at least, clear to him, with experience reading the unreadable woman). She fiddled with her skirts and looked around the camp before finally settling her eyes back on Wilson's. 

"I don't expect you to embrace the idea of these dark magics wholeheartedly. In truth it would change little if you did. It's incredibly draining to deal with these forces, the like of the shadows which prey on us when our nerves wear thin, and even if we were to use this energy freely it would still be far wiser if I cast and you acted as my safeguard." She scuffed the dirt with her rabbit hide shoe, whatever footwear she came into the place with long since worn to shreds. "There's no point in using these powers in the day to day; even the hounds are easily enough dispatched with the fangs of their previously fallen fellows and the larger beasts stay clear of these crumbling ruins. If all goes well you will never see me dip into these dark reserves." 

Wilson felt... he didn't know. The explanation she offered by way of her uncle's magic show (a pity the general populace didn't like the disappearing spoon, Wilson felt he might have actually enjoyed that kind of act) was more palatable than simple unexplained and unexplainable magic. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought the same; while he couldn't begin to explain how he was transported to the island he knew a proper scientific reason existed (he just lacked the equipment and objectivity to suss it out). But this seemed... more. Not just an unexplained teleportation but magic wands and incantations, he assumed. A phantom pain took his left palm and he fought the urge to rub the scar. 

The thing is that everything else to do with building the door he jumped on without hesitation. He couldn't quite grasp the intricacies of the knowledge dropped into his head, couldn't say why half the things he did were required, but Wilson was carried along by the rush and elation and he _knew_ all would be fully revealed in time. But the blood. He had to commision that knife specially in town, making up a story about a joke between friends and a nice bit of something to display in his home (the lie rolled easily off his tongue even as his mind chewed on the whole idea, a lifetime of practice trying to have a life outside his parents' control the training for that moment). A _silver_ knife, a metal too soft to be practical as a blade. But then it only had to hold an edge for a single cut, didn't it? 

After having the knife in his possession it took Wilson eight days to get it over and done with. He'd see the box out of the corner of his eye and neglect to notice. He set it on his desk and skirt it like it were some sort of angry venomous animal. He told himself his worry was over the potential damage to the tendons in his hand and therefore completely justified. Which it was, in part (he never quite made it to 'doctor' but he did make it partway into his surgical training. though that was all gone now it was still hard to divorce the idea of his hands being his livelihood), but far more than that it was playing into this... like some spiritualist charlatan saying that sprinkling salt at midnight would dispel a displeased ghost (or whatever those types claimed to work). 

Even when he had nothing he could still take comfort in reading scientific papers, or continuing his work once he had the house, something true and real and _solid_ in a world turned to ever shifting ash. ‘Blood drawn with silver’ was a betrayal of who he was, the only thing he had left after everything else was stripped away. And he still picked up the knife. 

He looked up (left hand in his right, thumb tracing the line of hidden scar tissue) and Miss Wendy was standing there looking at him with an expression that was not unkind. 

She shrugged. "I don't expect you to believe, but perhaps... don't deny it so vehemently?" 

Wilson laughed quietly, at himself and this whole ludicrous situation. She gave him a perfectly acceptable out, magic as science he just couldn't yet explain, and still he couldn't bring himself to admit that it was even a possibility. Even though no other explanation made sense. Even though Wilson loathed the 'scientists' who would deny and ignore easily measurable, repeatable findings if the data didn't fit with their views (usually viewing women or non-Caucasians as inherently lesser in spite of all actual scientific evidence, the bastards hiding their ignorant hatred behind a flimsy veneer which, sadly, held up among the many like-minded bastards). 

Holding onto that flawed ideal, the out-of-hand rejection of anything remotely supernatural... it was a thin veneer, a flimsy shield to protect himself. Like his gloves. And even though Wilson was sure (pretty sure. maybe sure. he didn’t know) Miss Wendy wouldn't hold it against him, his reasons for the gloves or the denial, he still couldn't quite bring himself to tell her. 

He never told anyone, Wilson realized, sitting there in a survivalist’s camp. The people who knew were either there (like his parents, like Jules), those who were told by someone else who knew (like his parents telling his brother), or just so sharp as to figure it out on their own (like Cecilia). There was family who knew and did harm (after all as much as he still craved some kind of acknowledgement from his parents he knew nothing would be good enough and that dulled the sting, like cutting numb scar tissue, but his brother? that part still _hurt_ ) but friends enough to balance out that wound. He always thought that was enough (or he always convinced himself that was enough, even as he ran away from everyone to go live alone in the woods and make transparently bad deals with demons living in radios), but maybe he just didn't want to think about the actual act of _telling_ someone. After all, anytime he tried to ponder the subject he found it hard to look at even inside his own head. Like a bright blot of painful light on his memory, his mind's eye sliding away before he could make out anything beyond a vague shape and lingering pain. 

(heh. no wonder Miss Wendy prefers the darkness). 

Wilson looked up, saw Miss Wendy patiently waiting, and rubbed his neck. "Yeah. Yes. I promise. I'll leave it alone." 

She tilted her head at him, a faint smile in her eyes. "And I pledge my oath not to mention it." 

"Deal." 

All businesslike, Miss Wendy clasped her hands together and then bustled over to her table. She retrieved her map (made of sheets of papyrus joined with loose stitching so it would fold easily and could be expanded at will, decorated with creatures both real and imagined along the edges) and unfolded it on his desk. 

"I believe there's worth in exploring this area," she tapped a blank corner. "What do you think?" 

Wilson leaned over the map and breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the apparent return to their usual routine. He hoped it would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Wilson knows Wendy's name now there needed to be something else that will be a surprise to him but everyone of you already knows.


	15. Pick a Peck of Pickled Puffballs

Wilson expected things to return to how they were before (putting things into a box and not thinking about them was a specialty of his, after all, so once he committed to not mentioning magic and she did the same it was quite easy to ignore the subject). He just wanted the peace of before back. But he quickly realized both that things were very different and that this was a very good thing. Before, in the winter, they had peace to be sure. Stiff, formal, distant peace. Then as the rains of spring bled into early summer things rapidly became intimate in that they were standing very close shouting at each other and verbally clawing at vulnerable spots. Now, summer finally ending it's hot reign on the land, they bantered and bickered and it was _wonderful_. They weren't just allies. They were truly becoming _friends_. 

His strongest friendships did tend to be antagonistic in nature, what with his most recent examples involving Jules (comparing his home unfavorably to folklore) or Cecilia (who never, ever let him forget an off day when he switched a dit and a dat on a telegram he relayed through her, amusingly and embarrassingly changing the results of a horse race from '1 MIN 37 SEC' to '1 MIN 37 SEX'). Wendy ( _Miss_ Wendy, he had to constantly remind himself to say, this new level of camaraderie disarming) was the antagonistic sort too, all wary suspicion and words sharp and precise as a round fired from her blowgun. They were still at arm's length (both metaphorically and literally), but the distance warmed as the air cooled. The proper, tenuous alliance melted into irreverent teasing. 

They both remained guarded about their pasts, but some truths came out. Wendy elaborated on some of the things she'd mentioned. Measles turned to pneumonia turned to a string of lung and throat infections that never seemed to end, this on top of mild asthma. Wilson mimicked her unknowingly and tilted his head curiously at her at that, asking how she could do such strenuous labor for so long without any attacks. To his surprise she seemed genuinely surprised and started trying to count back to the last attack she'd had to no avail (a voice in his head sounding more and more like Vizzie every day whispered 'magic', but what he said aloud is that the fresh air must be doing her some good). When they weren’t wondering after her unexpected good health, she told him of all the books she'd read in her bedridden youth. 

And, once, sitting on a log bench beside him Wendy spoke of her twin (she mentioned her only once before, he hazily remembered, to swear on her grave). 

She said that Abigail died shortly after they turned fourteen and no one would say what killed her, claiming the grieving twin was too young and fragile to understand. Wendy asked for a diagnosis, the desperation for some form of truth muted as everything was with her but far less than the usual. Wilson hesitantly offered to try, cautioning her that a secondhand account is not a good basis for a solid diagnosis. She nodded and then told him about more than a week of vomiting and diarrhea, dizzy spells, shaking, and abdominal pain, then a trip to a doctor late at night, and finally Abigail's last day alive spent sequestered from her twin. Wendy overheard the maid speak of blood on cushions. All this preceded by her twin drawing farther and farther away from her, going somewhere Wendy could not follow even before she left this mortal realm. 

"Do you have any idea what it could be?" Wendy asked, her eyes filled with sadness and hope in equal measure. 

"I..." The specifics of the symptoms combined with the distance prior did strike a very, _very_ loud chord. But Wilson didn't know how to say it, didn’t know where his companion stood on such matters, didn't know if it would break something treasured in Wendy's memory. He looked away, "I... it could be several things..." 

Silence stretched between them. At length she sighed and got up from her seat beside him. 

"Wendy, wait, I..." Wilson sighed too, long and deep and so bone-weary at the ways of the world. Why, of all the ways a young woman could die, was this the way so readily seen and readily recognized? 

Except it wasn't seen, wasn't recognized, that was the whole trouble. He knew because he'd seen the endless parade of corpses in his medical studies, but to most of the world they didn't exist. If the bodies were seen it was to sneer at them and say they deserved death for breaking the law, the same law that said a wife had no legal right to deny her husband. As if so many weren't forced, manipulated, lied to, as if so many weren't on their tenth child with no end in sight and no contraception allowed to them. As if the reason _mattered_. 

"... it sounds like she was poisoned. Irritation of the digestive tract causes the diarrhea and the body vomits to try and purge the toxin." Not a lie, not a lie, just the coward's truth. "Either by irritating the digestive lining directly or by thinning the blood--making it unable to clot--internal bleeding happens, thus the dizziness and the pain." 

"And the blood on the sheets, so hard to wash out," Wendy intoned, her voice and expression the most perfect unreadable blank that Wilson had yet to crack the code for. He didn't know if she saw right through him or not. He didn't know if Wendy would consider it kindness, keeping this from her. That her sister was yet another young woman (fourteen! a child, really) desperately in 'trouble', with nowhere to turn but back alley butchers and lethal home remedies. 

Even here in the wilderness of shadowy fae he couldn't escape the grim, infuriating reality of a country where abortion was illegal. She didn’t ask again, and he tried to put it out of his mind. 

Wilson didn't talk about why he ended up alone in the woods (in Maxwell's world or the world they left behind), but he told her about his house and what little he remembered about the aunt who willed it to him. He spoke of the work he'd done on the garden most of all. Wilson mentioned Jules in passing, as if they were only flatmates, as if they didn't go through hell together. He taught Wendy Morse (she found the necessity of shorthand stifling but still insisted on learning) in between talking about C.C. as if she were just a set of initials on the other end of a wire. 

When he talked about university he avoided _any_ mention of Bright and instead talked about the things he'd learned.The technical side of his medical studies were a source of endless fascination for Wendy. He'd describe and sketch the structure of an organ for her intense study, then watch as she translated what she learned into embroidery. While there was artistic licence at work she stayed true to an organ's structure and proportions. Wilson stood particularly impressed with the image of a flayed uterus, complete with ovaries and fallopian tubes, dripping black fluid from where rusty nails pierced it to a marble-topped table (the effect of fine marble achieved with no fewer than eleven shades of gray). 

He wondered, was she working out feelings about his lie of omission and what it implied about her sister or just painting another picture of poison in silk? Hard to tell. 

"Will you psychoanalyze me at this point?" Wendy asked when she showed him the early sketches. 

"Nah. I'm not a psychiatrist." 

"Well what good are you, then?" 

Wilson shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face, "Very little." 

Somewhere along the line that became sort of an inside joke between the two of them, a script read whenever her curiosity took them places his education did not reach. She too boasted a fine education, but in fields such as literature, history, or mythology (the three subjects, she mentioned more than once, are often enough one in the same). The reverse case involved him asking her about a work of fiction and being overly appalled at her deficiency on the occasions she didn't know the work in question (he still can't believe she didn't know the novel about the opera ghost, he would have guessed that to be precisely her cup of tea), and she would reply, dainty and haughty to an saccharine degree, that women of good breeding do not concern themselves with such ghastly literature. 

Wilson liked it. Having a friend, again. 

Summer passed, hot as a blast furnace but mercifully short (far shorter than Wilson logged back at his old camp; this place must be much closer to the poles. a long wormhole indeed!). When the days grew consistently not terrible they celebrated by washing _everything_ of the layered on sweat and grime. Oh, they took catbaths in the privacy of their own tents when the need arose and washed articles of clothing where they could, but that only counted for so much when the hot air wrapped everything in thick oppressive humidity. Each of them took a day while the other one stayed overnight in the pig village (to preserve modesty while skirts and trousers and unmentionables dried in the warm but not hot breeze). A brief holiday, but a welcome one, and then they were back to the usual struggle for survival. 

Wilson's garden turned into a small farm and he spent a lot of his time tending the plants or fishing (the lake yielded the same blue-scaled fish as the bottomless ponds), while Wendy and her two good legs roamed the area gathering and maintaining the bees and her spider cages. She had her expansions too, building another enclosure for the spiders and turning out a mountain of rabbit traps (along with the dead rabbits to go with them, and the resulting meat and hide). Wilson maintained the pickling barrels and drying racks (forcing himself to work past his negative experience with the mushrooms to slice and string the sackfuls Wendy brought from the deep forest) while Wendy tanned hides, spooled silk, and cleaned and dyed piles of wool (after stealing into a sleeping herd with Wilson's makeshift razor, stating it was far more efficient than trying to lure one away and lead it back and forth over a field of spring loaded traps). Every few days they both went out to the edge of the woods and cut down several trees, dragging them back to the ruins to be stripped down and made useable. 

The land in the mountain's shadow continued to surprise Wilson. As the birchnut leaves started to turn their vivid shades clusters of lumpy white blobs appeared throughout the forest. Wendy identified the new fungus as puffballs and put them both to work building more drying racks, commenting that they went very well with eggs. When the biggest puffballs reached the size of a human head they set out with a sled of empty baskets and came back with an absurd amount of surprisingly dense, firm mushroom balls. Though the unpleasant experience with mushrooms did lead Wilson to Wendy's friendship he still had a hard time looking the familiar red, green, and blue varieties in the eye, but he found the new puffballs delightful. Unlike its cousins the puffball boasted a pleasant flavor unmarred by acrid aftertastes, went wonderfully with the eggs they stole from wild bird nests, and could be eaten safely raw or cooked. Wilson and Wendy fell into a flurry of gathering and preserving, spending a minimum amount of time tending their other projects so long as the fungus swelled amongst the first fallen leaves, picking and preserving all they could both for themselves and for the village (as with the purple monster meat the King wouldn't accept the puffballs in their raw state, but tolerated their trade once the work of pickling or drying was done). 

It was on such a day of gathering, sled piled high with baskets both empty and full, that they found the grove. 

"Well, since you're incapable of answering a question directly," Wilson was saying as they trudged along, "I'm guessing I didn't see any of this last year since I... arrived? Very late in autumn and the puffballs started appearing as soon as the air stopped being an oven." 

Wendy nodded. "Even preserved they only keep so long before death overtakes their flesh, turning it to rot." She stepped closer, nudging him with her elbow even as she drug the sled. Even though she was such a slight thing she had stamina Wilson and his aching guts and gummy leg couldn't match (he still felt guilty about it even though she was perfectly capable of hauling it all day with no issue). 

"Makes sense. And they don't reconstitute as well as the capped varieties, am I right?" 

"Decidedly not. The texture is tolerable, or at least, it is to one who has known the desperation required to eat raw fishflesh--" 

\--Wilson's face screwed up in disgust, remembering his own encounter with uncooked frog-- 

"--however in previous years spent in solitude I prefered to enjoy these as they came." She paused and glanced over her shoulder at the sled. "Additionally, I could not hope to gather so many so quickly on my own." 

"It really is amazing how much difference a second set of hands... makes..." Wilson trailed off and shaded his eyes, looking up a nearby hill. "Were those trees always here?" 

Wendy slowed, then dropped the sled leads and squinted at the unfamiliar trees. "It has been some time since I ventured this way, but I recall that hill standing empty." 

"Huh. I guess Maxwell got bored." 

Wendy hummed absently. "Perhaps." 

The little grove, such as it was, consisted of a handful of trees with rough mid-grey bark and dark green leaves. As they climbed the hill it became apparent that these trees were quite large (the tallest beechnuts stood around ten feet tall, but these were twenty-five at the least). In the center of the loose ring sat a pale boulder streaked through with bands of green. 

Wendy dropped the reins to the sled and frowned at the stone. "What is that?" 

"I know exactly as much as you do at this point." Wilson made his way over and touched boulder. Mainly the same glittering white mountain chalk he was now familiar with, but the thick veins of deep green crystal were new. "Have you ever seen green gems up for trade in the pig village?" 

"No..." Wendy edged closer but still kept a healthy distance between her and the stone. "I don't believe we should tamper with it, whatever it is." 

"Why not? You're the one who likes gems." 

(useless things for your useless toys, a voice like his mother's said. what magic do you think this one has, a voice like his sister's said) 

Wendy remained wary, her porcelain doll face still marred by a creased brow. While actual expressions were more a common sight since summer ended she usually returned to passively sad before long. Her continuing worry was enough to drag him away from the perplexing crystal. She breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped away. 

"It seethes with a miasmic energy." Wendy's tone shifted from worried to chiding. "You never notice the danger when your curiosity is awakened." 

Now that she pointed it out he could feel it, that sense of unease he'd long come to associate with the malignant creatures of this realm or the poisoned flowers. Or, perhaps more accurately, the sinking in his gut when he drew close to a hidden swamp tentacle. He took a couple more steps away and the feeling subsided. 

"... Okay, I see your point." Like a true man of science his curiosity was insatiable, but it was a little easier to ignore once he had a few seasons of survival under his belt. Particularly with another focus so close at hand. "Are the trees the same way?" 

Wendy walked over to one and touched the bark. "They are inert, so much as anything can be in this realm." 

"Great." Wilson joined her. "Let's see what we can learn." 

The trees seemed designed to frustrate. The leaves grew very thick and they could just barely catch glances of what might be fruit in the dense clusters. The maybe-fruit was well beyond reach from the ground. Wilson unsteadily swung his walking staff into the branches, but nothing shook loose. 

"This seems scientific," Wendy observed at length from her position well out of his now extended range. 

"This is _very_ scientific," Wilson countered, huffing for breath as he resumed using his staff for its intended purpose. "All of science is throwing things at a wall and seeing what sticks. Well, except for the times people stumble into it backwards and possibly drunk." 

"Really?" She tilted her head at him, mockingly curious but genuinely fond. "Seems rather simple. There's not more to it?" 

"Not at all!" Having caught his breath he started making a slow path around the stubborn tree, squinting up into the branches (none of which hung low, the first fork standing high at Wilson's chin). "You have to be able to replicate your results many many times for them to mean anything. You also have to write it down. Otherwise it doesn't count." 

"Any other steps?" 

"You need to write it down a _lot_ , even if it seems obvious, because otherwise humanity forgets the cure for scurvy. Or people start thinking that pouring boiling tar on a severed blood vessel is a good idea instead of just tying it closed like a reasonable person." 

Wendy nodded. "Many great relics of the Roman Empire, such as the great Pantheon, were constructed using a lost concrete recipe which rivals modern blends." 

"Yes, see, doesn't matter what field you're talking about, there's important things that would be kind of embarrassing for a person to forget, let alone whole civilizations." Wilson moved to the center of the small orchard and looked around. "Hey, it's just like the cocoa trees." 

"Cocao." 

"What?" 

"Cocao." 

"Bless you." 

"It is pronounced _co-CAY-oh_ , not co-co." 

"I'm not a botanist." 

Wendy dramatically shrugged in mock defeat. "Then of what benefit are you?" 

"Very little. But I can recognize patterns, even if it's not my field." He turned a slow circle. "Look, it's a circle of seven trees," he pointed to the large gap between two of the trees, "with a place for a missing eighth. It's just like the cocoa or cocao or whatever they're called." Wilson slumped and sighed. "Which means that cutting them down to get at any potential fruit, the way we do with the birchnuts, probably won't work. Or at least, not in a sustainable way." 

"You are quite right. The cocao--" 

"Cocoa." 

"--trees I cut down in my early acquaintance with the breed did not grow back, nor did planting the seed pods in part or whole produce the barest hint of a sapling." 

"So, in conclusion, in all likelihood these seven trees are all we're going to get, unless we find another grove elsewhere. At least, likely enough that I don't want to risk it and take an ax to anything." 

Wendy dropped to her knees, swinging her pack in front of her and rummaging through it. At length she produced her trade ledger, pen, and ink, turned to a blank page, and wrote (as Wilson watched with growing amusement): 

_Observation on the Mysterious Trees ~ Seven sisters standing in a circle broken, bereft of the eighth which would see their ring complete. A seething stone sits in the center, wrought of evil and verdant crystal. Do the sisters protect the stone from the world or do they protect the world from the stone?_

"Your lab notes are going to be incomprehensible to anyone who doesn't know you." 

"While your words speak an insult your tone does not." 

"I bloody _love_ it. Want to be my assistant?" 

"What is the pay?" 

"Uh..." Wilson fished around in his odds-and-ends pouch and produced a smooth bluish stone he'd found while fishing in the lake. "This, I guess?" 

"Hmmm..." 

"And the next bird skull I find." 

"You give those to me in any case," Wendy pointed out. With great gravity she took the offered pebble, inspected it, and then nodded. "I find this payment to be acceptable." 

Wilson chuckled. "I'm glad." 

Her mouth remained a downturned line, but there was the hint of a smile in her eyes. "Now then, for my duties. Does my being your assistant mean that you risk hitting yourself in the head with a mysterious fruit, or your own walking stick, while I stay well out of harm's way and write down the results?" 

"Yes. Exactly that." 

Wendy looked down at the page and added " _Number of Times Wilson Took a Self-Inflicted Blow to the Head_ " near the bottom and underlined it. Then, still sitting, stuck out her hand. "It's a pleasure to enter your employ, Mr. Higgsbury." 

He shook her hand firmly but not forcibly, all the while trying not to read too much into his first name in glistening ink on the page. "It's a pleasure to employ you, Miss Wendy, and I am excited to have you working with me on this very important project." 

"What now?" she asked, pen at the ready. 

"I'm going to throw rocks at the tree." 

"I will remain here and add the grove to the map." 

"Excellent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeey! I'm not dead!
> 
> Sorry about the delay on that... all six months of it >_> I moved to a new restaurant in the same company which reduced my stress considerably, but recovery kind of took a lot out of me. It's still a process but I'm back into writing for NaNo. A huge thanks to all of your who left encouraging comments, it really did help!


	16. An Apple a Day Keeps the Monsters Away

Throwing rocks at the tree was marginally successful. As Wilson circled his chosen target he could just barely make out the rounded shapes amid dense clusters of leaves and he aimed for those, mostly missing the tree entirely or bouncing the rocks off the limbs (Wendy was the one with crack aim while he was mostly good for hitting things with sticks of varying sharpness). He didn't manage to knock any of the potential fruit loose, but he did manage to knock a handful of leaves down. Wilson gathered them off the ground and squinted at them (pointed ovals, green with purplish stems and veins). 

Without looking up from her work, Wendy called out, "What is your conclusion?" 

"I'm still not a botanist!" He called back as he started walking her way. 

"Didn't you research before planting your previous garden?" 

"That taught me about pumpkins and peas. I read a little about fruit trees and was planning on getting at least one, but I...uh, never got around to it." Wilson shook off the self-loathing shame that always surfaced when he was reminded of how easily he'd been duped. "All I'm sure of is that it definitely has leaves." 

Coming to stand next to her he handed Wendy one of the leaves for inspection, glancing down at the map laid out to dry beside her. Aside from the little sketched grove she added an attacking pigman with an apple in his mouth to the edge of the map (was the apple a prediction about the trees or an unrelated flourish?). Not quite to Jules's skill but very nicely rendered nonetheless (a longing part of him ached at the thought of how well they'd get along). He stood there patiently as she added _Additionally: the tree definitely has leaves_ to her ledger-turned-scientific-journal (right under the space dedicated to keeping track of how many times he hit himself in the head). 

"Well," Wendy asked as she finished recording the observation, "what is the next step?" 

"I'm not sure." Wilson frowned at the closest tree. "Uhg, I wish we could just fell one... what else..." 

An idea struck him, and he glanced over at the walking stick in his hand. The staff Wendy made him had undergone some revisions, both functional and decorative. It took a few prototypes but an added strap allowed him to quickly sling his staff onto his back. The motion was already becoming second nature (to the back when he needed his hands free, forward when he needed to move). Wendy insisted on crafting the strap's final draft, all intricately braided twine dyed shades of red paired with white leather (to match the rabbit hide grip). A wide band of color stretched a good thirty centimeters down from the bottom of the grip, the result of a bored and heatsick Wendy wrapping different colors of silk many, _many_ times around the branch. Predominantly red (red like his waistcoat, red like her crushed silk flower) sparse layers of yellow and blue and black created an interesting variegated effect. 

Most importantly in the context of the mysterious trees, however, was the hook securely attached to the top. Rusty and dull, it was one of the many treasured pieces of rubbish which seemed to filter in from the other side. This particular piece washed up on the beach, and Wilson thought it might have originally been used to haul around the nets of cargo being moved between ship and dock. In its new life on a poor man's walking stick the hook was a handy way to shake down birchnuts without felling the tree, or to grab a tentacle arm's spoils without risking injury. Wilson had tested it before and the sturdy leather binding the hook to wood could hold his weight. 

While he was considering this Wendy saw him looking at the hook. At her deep, annoyed sigh Wilson turned back to her. 

"Perhaps I should go?" she suggested, her nose wrinkling. "Your leg might give you trouble." 

"Can you pull yourself up, though?" Wilson waved at the trees, at the lowest branches still well beyond her reach and the wide spacing between limbs thick enough to support a person. "I'm taller and stronger, leg or no I think I'll have an easier time at it." 

Wendy considered the tree and then nodded reluctantly. "I suppose I should move closer to better offer aid, should the worst come to pass." 

After she took her post under the tree (but far enough to the side he wouldn't land on her if he did fall) Wilson started his journey up. To be sure he had his reckless streak, and a proper impulse could carry him away through months of fevered obsession (his pirate phase as a child, throwing himself into his doomed path to become a doctor, the voice on the radio promising knowledge beyond his dreams). But he also had the patience to record eleven points of data on six varieties of squash grown in five different kinds of soil every day for half a year. In this case sense won out over fervor and Wilson _very_ carefully made his way up his chosen tree, pausing on each branch to rest. He'd probably have to stay at their camp the next day, just to be safe, but he didn't feel his leg would be too strained to make it back at the end of this endeavor. The hook made all the difference, and thankfully it stayed firmly lashed to the staff no matter how many times he put his weight on it. So it was that Wilson encountered no trouble in his journey up the tree, aside from one time he lightly bumped his head on a branch (he paused and looked down at Wendy, who held his gaze for a moment before bending her head and making a very deliberate mark on the page). 

He reached the first clusters of fruit a third of the way up. 

The shape, size, and heft were all right for an apple. The bright green skin was reminiscent of apples Wilson had seen before, though none of Granny Smith's brood sported vivid purple mottling heavy towards the stem and fading towards the end (he never did get that Granny Smith graft for the tree in his yard, did he? ooooh, would these branches _graft_?). There were some obvious conclusions to be made given the coloring. He also realized (looking down at where Wendy sat on her legs under the tree) there were was an obvious way to relay the information to his new lab assistant. Wilson grinned. 

"I'm going to go out on a limb, here..." half a heartbeat passed before Wendy's head snapped up, her eyes wide and a look of annoyed betrayal written across her features. Precarious as his position was, Wilson couldn't help but let out a full bellied laugh. 

"Should you plummet to the unyielding earth and break your neck I will not aid you!" Wendy called back to him, probably half-serious (she wasn't above the odd pun, but found the frequency which he employed them annoying). She said something else which he didn't quite catch (something about reminding her of someone?). "Do you have any legitimate observations for me to record?" 

Still laughing, Wilson held out the apple where she could see it. "Yes, actually. C'mere and catch!" 

Wendy lay the map and her stationary on top of her pack and got to her feet. She fussed with her rabbit skin skirts as she walked to the tree, holding her hands out as she got close and easily catching the fruit he dropped to her. As she walked further away so he could see her without looking straight down she turned it this way and that, poking at the stem and running her fingers along the purple side. "Ah, one of Snow White's stepmother's, then." 

"I could never string it together like that but, yeah, I agree!" Wilson sat with his back to the trunk and his legs on either side of the branch supporting him, rubbing his aching hip. "Hopefully it's not so poison we can't cut it with other ingredients, like with the redcaps or the foul meat." A thought struck him as he reached out and plucked another fruit from the tree. "No matter what we do to it we need to avoid ingesting the seeds!" 

Wendy tilted her head at him, peering up through the branches. "How so?" 

"The seeds are poisonous even in normal apples, so the ones in this," he waved the bright thing in his hand back and forth, "are probably absurdly toxic." 

"Poison? From an apple?" Wendy asked, keenly interested. 

Wilson nodded. "Yeah! Heh, you have another thing you can put to needlework. Normal apple seeds contain trace amounts of cyanide. You'd have to eat whole cupful of them to do any real damage, but I'd wager these are far worse. Hmm..." Wilson drug his apple across a branch, careful to keep his hands well away from the juice as the peel ground away (white flesh as usual for an apple, but very faintly purple instead of the usual yellow or green). He held it under his nose and took a sniff. 

"What are your findings?" Wendy called up. 

"Well, it doesn't smell of almonds, which is a sure sign of cyanide. Not that this means the apple is _safe_ , but if it did smell like almonds then we'd probably be better off leaving it alone completely." 

Wendy considered at the fruit in his hand. "Should the flesh prove too toxic to consume we could still use that to our advantage." 

"Hmm, yes. Maybe the thrice damned gobblers would be interested in these instead of our berry bushes. Or we could distill it down into... poison cider, I suppose? Oh, if it’s potent enough we could coat your darts in it!" 

"Quite." She looked at the apple in her hand consideringly, then directed a _look_ his way. "The distance is too great, so there's no point in you breaking your neck trying to reach me." 

"I--what? What are you--" 

Before Wilson could process her words Wendy took a huge, crunching bite. Wilson wasted precious seconds gaping at the ( _smarter than this!_ ) young woman. " _Wendy!_ What are you _doing?_ " 

"Experimenting." Wendy spoke around her mouthful of (potentially lethal!) apple. "I'm sure you intended to make yourself the lab rat. I apologize for robbing you of the opportunity to be foolish, particularly after your capacity for poison was so weakened by your adventure with the verdant fungus." 

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full!" he blustered (and okay he was planning that but in a _controlled environment_ not out in the open an hour's walk from their camp). "Spit it out!" 

"Hmm..." she closed her eyes and chewed slowly. Wilson resisted the urge to bang his head into the tree (she'd just tally it as a self-inflicted blow to the head). "Absurdly tart. I wager it would be much improved by the addition of honey." _Finally_ she spit her mouthful out on the ground, her nose still scrunched up at the taste. 

"That's not very ladylike!" Wilson shouted, his heart still pounding in his ears. Why was it necessary for her to scare him like that? 

"My credentials as a lady were irreparably soiled when you first said 'fuck' in my presence." 

"Oh, _please_ , you're so good at swearing you can do it without saying any actual curse words." Wendy was still standing, her words precise as always (the 'fuck' particularly crisp, and Wilson felt a phantom pang of guilt since he first fell into ungentlemanly language when they were having their extended summertime row). However, she was still standing. Wilson relaxed by the smallest margin. "How do you feel?" 

"The sourness is rather intense." By the way her face remained screwed up Wilson got the feeling that was an understatement. "There is also an unpleasant aftertaste. Metallic." After a moment's pause she spit on the back of her hand and squinted at the result. "That _is_ clear, is it not?" 

"Hold your hand up, I can't--yes, it's just spit." Wilson looked her over worriedly. "Metallic as in blood?" 

"Apparently it is not my life's essence, though the taste is reminiscent of copper." She wiped the saliva off on her skirts and considered the apple in her other hand. "This reminds me of how the flesh of the fallen fell beasts tastes raw even when blackened." 

"How does your stomach feel?" 

"Hmm... the slightest bit ill, but nothing to fret about." 

"It would figure." Wilson sighed. Wendy looked a bit queasy, but nothing worse than that. "Madwoman, for the sake of my nerves, _please_ don't take another bite?" 

Wendy rolled her eyes dramatically before tossing the apple to the ground. "It’s amusing, you accusing me of madness. You're the scientist, remember?" 

"Artists can be just as mad as scientists," Wilson pointed out, dropping his own marred fruit (not worth trying to wrap up where it wouldn't contaminated the puffballs). His panic finally subsiding completely, he returned his focus to the tree he was still sitting in. "Besides, if I’m a mad scientist then it means I know what I’m talking about when I conclude you’re a madwoman.” He shook his head fondly, then returned to business. “Well, grab one of the baskets and we'll pick a few to take back with us. One of the smallest ones, I think." Wilson started making his way up to where he spied a large cluster of fruit hiding in the leaves. "They might not be fully ripe right now, and later in the season the purple and the poison might fade." 

"The hopeless may dare to hope. I'll fetch it." 

The next half hour or so passed without incident, aside from Wendy insisting on digging out her ink and ledger to note when Wilson lost grip on the apple he was picking and dropped it square on his head. They pleasantly discussed the likely fictional story of Sir Isaac Newton and his famous apple, mutual longing over the possibility of apple pie leading into the properties of the number pi, and how it's great Snow White lived and all but wow the sleeping kiss was creepy as hell (they agreed that the final nail in the proverbial glass coffin was the realization that it made no sense for the dwarves to allow some random stranger to paw at their most prized possession). It only took about a dozen purple-green apples to fill their second-smallest basket (the smallest having been dedicated to stray mysterious seeds left by the birds), which was plenty for their purposes. Ideas for experiments whirled through Wilson's mind, from baked apples stuffed with honey and birchnuts to spears coated in toxic cider. 

As he was just about to make his way down he spied something off in the branches above. Something lighter than the rest of the tree, bright green fruit included. He started towards it with care. 

"Hold on, I see something." 

Wendy passed out of sight below, the branches and leaves growing thicker the higher in the tree he went. "What is it?" 

"Just a minute..." At length Wilson sat himself down on a convenient branch to consider the anomaly. "There's one apple that's a different color. Just one, though." 

"Perhaps that one is ripe?" 

Wilson squinted at the yellow skinned specimen, then at the cluster of green-purple ones surrounding it. "I don't think there'd be one ripe when the rest aren't." 

"If we are to assume things to behave as their more mundane cousins across the divide, then we shall never get anything done." 

Wilson took a moment to be irritated at the generic seeds he sowed in his little farm (what with root vegetables popping out of weird cabbages) before sighing and silently conceding the point. 

Wendy continued, needing no confirmation to know she was right. "What shade is this odd fruit?" 

"Yellow." Remembering that Wendy had a unique name for every shade of silk she'd ever dyed, Wilson elaborated. "Uh, sort of a rich yellow? Leaning to orange a bit, like yellow cheddar." 

"Sounds delightful. I cannot see you at present, but I stand ready to catch it." 

Wilson grabbed it, the apple pulling free easily. Firm of flesh just like the others, just with yellow skin. "It's only the one; I'll just pocket it." 

"Take care on the way down, if you please, Mr. Higgsbury. I would be loath to drag you back to camp yet again." 

Wilson chuckled as he stowed the apple (less 'pocketing' and more 'shoving it down the front of his shirt') and made his slow way down the tree. "Why not? We could make it an annual event." 

"You don't resemble a skeleton so much as you did when we first met, yet I remain just as slight. I might not be capable of the task." 

"Fair point." The descent was harder than the climb, doubly so with his leg, but he didn't worry much about falling after a childhood spent constantly darting up and down trees (to his mother's eternal displeasure, and his father's too once he passed the age of ten or so). He just went slow and used his staff to test branches. "I didn't realize I'd deprived you of a living skeleton to board with since getting some weight back. You must miss the aesthetic." 

"It is regretful, however, the departing aesthetic took with it the worry that you would spontaneously complete the transformation." 

Wilson finally came to rest on a lower branch, from which he could see his companion again. He sat there, posture relaxed and his hands dangling between his knees. "I'm touched you'd rather have me alive than as a decorative skeleton." 

Wendy had her hands on her hips, that shade of blank that wasn't a smile but could be interpreted as something in that direction on her face. "Your skull would make a delightful goblet, after some creative goldsmithing. Still, I will take the surplus of puffballs." 

"Should I be worried you've thought about what to do with my skull?" Wilson laughed (he knew she loved the morbid, and that she liked that he didn't hold that fascination against her). "Are my ribs going to be a xylophone?" 

"I was going to say windchimes." She clapped her hands together as he made his way down the last branch and to the ground. "Ah! There was this wonderful story about a murdered man's bones crafted into a magic flute. When played it sang a sad ballad in his voice, telling the tale of how he died." 

Wilson picked a leaf out of his hair. "I don't think you want something that sings like me, including me, alive, as I am now and not an enchanted instrument. My voice cracks terribly." 

"I enjoy terrible." 

He would have replied but he was distracted from the baffling concept of Wendy--or _anyone_ \--wanting to hear him sing (his voice, as he'd often been reminded, was unfortunate even when speaking normally). The lump of apple between his waistcoat and shirt seemed awfully heavy (and was it that _cold_ when he dropped it down?). Wilson fished it out and stared dumbly at the apple-shaped piece of gleaming metal in his hand. 

"It was a normal fruit when I picked it..." he said, bemusedly turning the thing this way and that. The same size and shape as the apple it once was, just changed to solid polished gold for no apparent reason. 

"Oh, dear," Wendy breathed, her gray eyes wide and her hands going for the blowgun at her belt. " _I_ am the one versed in myth, I should have _known_." 

Wilson dropped the apple on the ground with a thud and unslung his staff, doing the mental arithmetic on how quickly he could get to the spear and rough armor strapped to the sled. Questions clamored in his head but hard-earned survival instinct blocked them out for the moment. Better to answer the call to arms and it be nothing than to die asking questions. He scanned the area down the hill, but Wendy tugged on his arm and pointed to the white and green boulder. It glowed purple-tinged darkness. 

"Golden apples tend to have guardians," Wendy explained, a tremor of fear in her voice. If it was like the hounds, they could handle it with what they had on hand. If it was worse... 

Wilson made a break for the sled just as the stone cracked into glittering dust, the green crystal unfurling into something very, very angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW the puffballs and what is about to go down are both mod ideas i've had for DS, but I've not had the time to learn how to code and such to put them into effect. So into the fic they go!


	17. Never Look for a Worm in the Apple of Your Eye

"Wendy!" Wilson yelled as he pulled at the slipknots holding his battle gear to the sled. "Get behind a tree and stay out of sight!" 

Five seconds later there was an almighty tearing sound and the earth shook. Wilson wheeled around even as he slung the rough wooden armor over his head. A wall of dense thorns, seven feet tall if it was one, sprung up between each of the apple trees. Wendy jumped back just in time to avoid the rising hedge. Even as his hands moved on automatic, tying the rope belt and grabbing the spear, Wilson blanched with horror (pinned in, no way out!). 

A wave of bad feelings washed over Wilson, artificial and separate from his own genuine fear. Icy dread seemed to blast from the boulder, now crackling with purple-black energy. 

"Briar Rose never ate any apples!" Wendy shouted at the thorns in apparent outrage. She whirled back around to face the rising beast, grim determination written plainly across her face. 

Wilson stood and gripped the spear tight (one set of armor, one spear, she's low on darts, fuck fuck fuck). "Just keep moving, okay? Let me handle it!" 

The creature made itself, the green gem veins unfurling from the shattered boulder with a series of crackling sounds loud as gunshots. 

"I will allow you to draw its ire, but I will _not_ stand idle." Wendy was furious, more so than Wilson had ever seen her. 

The crystalline structure stopped growing and then turned opaque. A scaly texture rippled across the surface. 

"Just--just--" Everything else they faced was familiar (to Wendy if not to Wilson), they had forewarning, they _knew_. Neither of them knew this. Wilson shook his head, trying to still the tremors making their way down his arms, "--just stay alive!" 

The dull purple glow faded and before them stood (slithered?) two massive snakes. Some part of Wilson started cataloguing (... roughly ten to twelve inches in diameter at the thickest point, their heads held about five feet off the ground, triangular heads indicate venom glands, fangs at least six inches long...). Some part of Wilson panicked (... there's two they're poison I don't want to die i have to keep them away from Wendy but if I fall she can't get out I can't stand the thought of dying anymore I can't stand the thought of living without her...). The rest of him, most of him, took note of the way the snakes moved, took note of how far away he was from them and them from Wendy, the rest of him held the spear in a suddenly steady grip. 

After all, if he couldn't work through the fear he wouldn't have lasted this long. 

He lunged forward in a limping hop, favoring his bad leg as much as he could while still moving fast enough to be considered a threat. Wilson swung the spear in a wide arc, not connecting but then he just needed to get their attention at this stage. Two pairs of slitted gold eyes (gold like _gold_ , metallic and unfeeling) stared hungrily. He locked gazes with one of them and felt--strange--stiff--wooden--no--not wood--his gut said--the knowledge Maxwell gave him said--and then tore his eyes away. 

"Are there myths about snakes turning people into gold when they look at them?" He shouted, his eyes cast down to where the closest snake's body met the ground. 

"Not in particular! Why!?" 

A pause and then the soft pfft of a dart being loosed. The closer snake shuddered, and he could see it start to turn. Wilson swung his spear half-blind and it skittered across the scales in a glancing blow. Another dart, another shudder, and then Wilson narrowly dodged it as it fell limp to the ground. He sidestepped the sleeping serpent and advanced on the other one. Wilson stabbed the beast and the sharpened flint barely broke through the thick scaley hide. He tried again, with more of his weight behind it, and glittering blood speckled the grass. "Whatever you do don't look them in the eyes!" 

Somewhere to his left Wendy called, "I only have three more sleep darts left!" 

"Make them count!" 

She loosed regular darts at the snake still hissing angrily, pausing between each volley so that Wilson could reclaim its attention. Wendy stayed behind it (and to the side so a missed dart wouldn't risk hitting Wilson) and it swung and swayed trying to get eyes on both its attackers. They kept it distracted for a minute in this way, during which it didn't attack aside from trying to catch their eyes, but unfortunately the easy part didn't last. The sleeping snake started to stir-- 

"Stay _down_ , Briar Medusa!" 

\--and with Wendy occupied loading her sleeping darts and taking it down once again the other snake, fully awake and _bloody pissed_ , decided the gold stare wasn't working so why not try the fangs? 

Wilson saw the body of the snake coil and swung the handle of his spear up wildly. On the first lunge he got lucky and caught the mouth of the thing--the flesh inside pale purple like the flesh of the apples--on the shaft. On the second lunge the fangs sunk deep into his forearm. Wilson swore like a sailor and punched the thing in the snout (at least he thought it was the snout since he still wasn't looking directly at it). As it turned him loose with a vicious hiss he heard the thump of the other snake returning to its unnatural sleep. Wilson staggered back, pain radiating out from the punctures on his arm. Cold raced along his veins, and with it came a sluggish haze. He looked up, and there were the golden eyes, and there, and there... 

When he came back to himself he was on the ground. His limbs were stiff as stone and he lay there like a toppled statue, his legs still bent and his hands posed as if they were still gripping the spear. His bad leg screamed at the tension. Control of his body returned muscle by muscle and he slowly collapsed into a facedown heap on the browning grass. 

"This! Is! Not! Dignified!" Wendy huffed as she ran along the inside perimeter of the thorny wall, two angry serpents hot on her heels. "How _dare_ you mix myths like this!" 

Wilson's staff ended up under him in an uncomfortable tangle of harness and wood. With a groan he sat up enough to get it out from under himself and used it to pull himself up to his feet. 

"Midas Medusa Snow White Briar Rose bastards!" Wendy seethed with as much, if not more, venom as the snakes. His spear was in her hands (too tall for her slight frame, no armor, what is she _doing_ no no no no no). She got a little ahead of them, turned, and swung blindly with the spear. Then she spun on her heel and kept running with fangs snapping at her heels. Wendy looked over her shoulder at Wilson as she made another round. "Distract the sleepy one!" she ordered. 

Wendy had the increasingly wild look of someone whose nerves were frayed by too much time spent in the company of monsters. Wilson's mind was still his own but his body was barely responding to his requests (yellow fangs, golden eyes). Wilson fought his way up to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. He didn't have much choice but to trust Wendy knew what she was doing (not much choice but to die) so he lurched forward and swung at the snakes as they passed. Both turned towards him, but Wendy swiped at the more injured one and got it to follow her while Wilson managed to catch the other in the mouth with the cargo hook on his staff. It writhed angrily, its fangs dripping, and he couldn't attack it but he could hold it still. 

Desperately he tried to keep an eye on Wendy. He didn't have long to wait for her plan to unfold. Wendy fumbled in her pouches as she ran before turning back towards the monster. "I will be your _end_!" Wendy screamed as she turned and drove the handle of the spear into the ground at an angle. The snake impaled itself on the sharpened flint as it lunged for her, driving the spear all the way through its body. As it skewered itself she threw the glowing red flower onto the ground. It levitated, like it always did, but in the moment when the snake fell limp on the spear it flared with light. Wendy staggered and clutched her skull as a being of ethereal white light formed under the flower. 

Wilson was so stunned with these developments the snake got its mouth off of the hook and darted forward, cracking its fangs against the wooden armor. Cursing up a storm, Wilson smacked it and tried to get the hook back in its mouth without looking at its eyes. The thing summoned out of the flower gilded forward, lighting up red as it got close to the snake. It wasn't touching the monster and yet the monster winced and screeched, even as nothing happened to Wilson. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth and kept the snake focused on him while the flower thing whittled away at it. 

The weight of the snake's upright portion falling to the ground wasn't much, all things considered, but Wilson was exhausted from the tree climbing and subsequent unexpected battle. Not to mention his leg was passing hurt and settling into spasming. So he followed the thing down to the ground and lay there on his side watching as the gleaming liquid gold blood darkened to a thick purple sludge. 

Wendy called his name, or at least, made an attempt at it. Her voice was strained and uneven (a stark contrast to her usual cadence which invoked thoughts of a finely tuned instrument being carefully and slowly played). Wilson made an attempt to get up but the fact that she was breathing and awake robbed him of the fear necessary to push his body beyond the limits. He slumped back down with a groan, his cheek pressed into the damp cold dirt, as his leg _seized_. 

With a low rumble the wall of thorns descended back into the ground. Wilson weakly lifted his head to watch (if they dug up the ground would they find roots?), then rolled onto his back so he could breathe heavily and force his head around in Wendy's general direction. She kneeled on the ground fumbling with the torn shoulder of her shirt (patched scraps of faded red cloth, he thinks it might've began its life as a skirt before being replaced with rabbit skin). No blood on her hands, though (it must've grazed her). Wilson concluded he'd been bitten with something that wasn't a graze and was still alive and, also, he couldn't do a bloody thing even if she was in serious trouble, so instead of providing aid he blinked blearily at her. 

She alternated between hugging herself and clutching at her head, shivering violently all the while. Her eyes darted around, seeing things that weren't there (flickering shadows laughing, the whole world both muted and far too loud, at least that's how it goes when Wilson hits that point of lingering paranoid terror). 

The glowing apparition hovered beside Wendy. It wasn't glowing red, it wasn't acting aggressive, and that's all the energy Wilson had left to wonder with pain making spots dance in front of his eyes. 

Wilson curled his hand in her direction. "Wendy, c'mere." 

The command, uncommanding though it was, drew her focus. She rose to unsteady feet and shuffled her way over, collapsing back down beside him to sit on the side of her legs. The glowing being followed. 

A thought occurred, and something of a hysterical bark bubbled it's way up out of Wilson's throat. "Hah... hah... all we need's you pointing a spear at m'face and it's like almost a year ago." 

"One of us was functioning at that time," Wendy pointed out, suddenly twisting to look nervously behind her. "Summoning her costs me and I barely had the fare to pay. I'm safe from _them_ now, but once darkness comes..." 

Wendy wasn't as unnerved as Wilson by the pitch black ink that descended on the island every night (save for the occasional silver wash of the full moon) but she still didn't like it. They had a firefly lantern strapped to the sled and supplies for a campfire besides, but that would only do so much to keep the visions of malevolent shadows away. The comforts of their familiar camp helped him so they must help her, but there was no way in hell either of them was going to be making it back there before sundown. 

(a part of him pointed out, they're just hallucinations. another part countered, no they're _not_. a third part, rooted in practicality, concluded that whether the shadows actually hurt her or if she hurt herself trying to get away with them the result would be the same) 

"W'got greencaps?" Wilson fluttered his fingers towards the sled. "Cook'm. Eat." 

Wendy stared wide eyed towards their supplies. "Not dusk yet. Is there enough fuel to feed the fire all night if it starts now? Can't, can't start it now." 

"Hng... use the baskets if y'gotta. Hell, use the bloody sled. Jus' get... okay." 

With the reassurance that the darkness could be kept at bay (if at the expense of a stack of reed baskets and a sled that took her a considerable amount of time to make) Wendy staggered up and made her way towards the promise of cooked mushrooms and soothed nerves. The thing (she? Wendy called it she) followed her. 

"When you're not as bad..." he said to the sky, "... 'm gonna have s'm bloody questions." 

"Fair. Fair." Her teeth were chattering in a way that had nothing to do with the pleasant early-autumn air. Wendy dropped the reserve of wood on the ground and pulled out twigs and dry grass. "Drat, drat, drat," she dropped her flint four times but eventually she got the fire going. She stared at it for a minute as if expecting it to snuff out for no reason before turning back to Wilson. "You are not well." 

"Understatement." Wilson groaned and with some effort propped himself up on his good elbow. "What th' hell did that bloody thing do, anyway?" 

"Turned you to a golden statue. For a time." Wendy shivered. "Instinct says if you were on the verge of death you'd remain in that state rather than... thawing, as you did." 

"Good I didn't get bit 'gain." 

"Yes, that is very true. How do you feel?" 

"Don't think 'm dying." 

"Good. Refrain from doing so." Wendy twitched into action. Instead of fussing with a knife Wendy just dropped a whole puffball into the fire to roast before spearing a few greencaps on a stick. "I'll help, Mr. Higgsbury, I will, but my hands, not yet." She was shaking so badly the mushroom at the end of the stick fell off and into the flames. 

"S'okay. Be okay until you have'm." Wilson lowered himself back to the ground. Somehow the return to his proper name stung worse than the bite (well, maybe not quite since his whole body ached and burned and a few other varieties of pain, but it was up there). The glowing apparition floated beside him, which he pointedly ignored. His head hurt too much for... whatever that was. 

After Wendy's hands stopped shaking so badly (though they never stopped shaking) she threw the last of the wood on the roaring fire and tended to Wilson's wounds. 

"Your lifeforce is staining my skirt," Wendy said, flat as glass, as she sat there beside him. 

"Yeah." Wilson stared up at the lavender dusktime sky. It took some effort to roll his head around to look at her (she... didn't look good). "Prob'ly." 

"It's rude to spill something on a lady's skirt." 

"Your someth'n or other got spoilt when I said 'fuck' th'first time." 

"True, true, true." 

With slurred words Wilson talked Wendy's trembling hands through surgery. His sleeve Wendy nicked with her knife and then ripped open, her hands and the two punctures doused with the contents of a two-day's-dead spider gland (no materials nor time to dilute the poison). The antiseptic _seared_ , and Wendy scrambled back as Wilson screamed his newfound agony into the darkening sky. When the worst of it passed he coaxed her back through gritted teeth, reassuring her that he knew it would be that bad. She packed the twin wounds with honey and slathered more on the skin, then wrapped it all in a protective layer of papyrus held on by twine. 

He felt better (relatively, anyway) once surgery was done. "Thanks... uhg, at least it's m' non-dominsh... non-dominm... 'm a lefty." 

"At last, some good news..." Wendy still shivered, but not as badly as before (relative, everything's relative). Idly she reached down and pinched the top of his glove, rubbing the material between her fingers. Wilson didn't have a lot of room to move, but instinct took over and his body made an attempt to yank his arm away from her touch. Mostly all it accomplished was jostling his recently-bandaged wound. He groaned in newly renewed pain. Wendy's hand stayed where it was, her whole from frozen and her big gray eyes bigger than usual. 

"That wasn't good of me," she finally ++squeaked. Slowly she pulled her hand away. "I didn't intend--I wondered what they--kid leather, isn't it?" 

"Don't try to take them off." 

Wilson had little control over anything at the moment, his awareness muffled by venom and blood loss. He didn't mean to be, well, mean, but between the exhaustion and only being aware of his limbs where they hurt his words came out wrong enough that Wendy shrunk back like a spooked rabbit. Like the first tentative weeks of their rooming together. Like she was scared of him (and who could blame her?). 

Wilson felt the work of a year slipping through his numb fingers. "No, sorry, I didn't--" 

"You're right." The rabbit was gone, in its place the stiff propriety (only slightly wobbly as she still twitched at shadows only she could see). "That was not... I should have asked." 

"S'okay. You're not 'n a good..." Wilson wasn't in a good place either, but he could still see this conversation going in downward spirals. Instead, with trepidation, he addressed the glowing elephant in the room (or hilltop, as it were). "So... what the hell is that thing?" 

Wendy blinked, slowly, then looked over at the apparition hovering lazily to and fro out into the darkness a ways and then back towards the fire. At Wendy's glance it stopped its lazy wandering and came to sit (float?) at her elbow. "This is my twin sister, Abigail. Of course." 

"Uh... oh." Wilson squinted up, but his position lying flat on his back (combined with blurry vision, oh this is not good) afforded him no advantages in taking in the specter's form. "Obviously. Sorry for calling her a thing." 

"We are both out of sorts." Wendy sighed and it sounded like it went all the way down to her toes. Not that Wendy ever looked happy, and she just had a rough time with a pair of angry snakes, but she seemed even more distant than usual. She looked at her... 'sister' sideways. The sister who bled out in her bed after a botched abortion. 

(if Wendy believed this to be her long lost twin, then why would she avoid summoning her from the flower for so long?) 

(if Wendy didn't believe this to be her long lost twin, why would she claim it to be Abigail?) 

Wilson's head hurt to much to work on that puzzle. Let alone to reconcile whatever it (she?) was with the resolute anti-magic stance (resolute as a house of cards). 

They split the roast puffball (burned on the outside, raw on the inside) and then settled in for the night. Wilson never quite slept, but he drifted until morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you folks for sticking with me through the irregular updates (and being understanding and not asking me when the next one will go up). It's been a while of not being able to write a lot or any in a day but slowly and surely I get there.
> 
> The way I'd envision this working in-game would be that you've got the ring of trees and the shiny boulder in the middle. If you try and mine the boulder then it triggers the fight. You can 'shake' the trees for apples, probably just one each day from each tree. While the boulder is still there it'll only give you the green-purple ones, with a chance of a gold apple. If the gold apple drops then the boss fight happens. The turning to gold part would probably not work the same in game re: look in the eyes, it would probably have to be a random chance when they do damage to you like it's the venom. They'll drop monster meat, gold (the eyes), and the fangs which can be crafted into either a weapon or a trap that does double damage of a hound trap.


	18. Intelligence and Wisdom are Different Words for a Reason

At dawn Wilson consisted of one solid sharp pain and Wendy managed to out-pale her usual fair complexion but they were moving, at least. Wendy more than Wilson, after he tried to assist in moving the snake corpses and nearly passed out she confined him to sitting while she got them ready to go. 

The apparition (Abigail, whatever it actually was Wendy called it Abigail so Wilson should get in the habit) was translucent in the light of day and its (her) outline wavered between a formless blob and something approximating a human. The head was more or less defined, the torso and arms somewhat distorted but still clear, and instead of legs even in her crispest form she faded to a look of feathered rags below the waist. 

The eyes, though, remained clear regardless of the state of the rest of her. No iris or pupil, just soft light, but the shape was painfully identical to Wendy's. On her glowing head sat the crumpled silk carnation, the only part of her that seemed truly _real_. Abigail wore hers on her left, Wendy wore hers on the right. A mirror image, the ghost and the girl who drifted with the quiet grace of one. 

Wilson watched the two of them as Wendy packed up the sled and Abigail hovered near her. Wendy seemed to take comfort in Abigail's presence, but the fact remained that for a year (whatever that counted for in this realm) Wendy neglected to make use of whatever mechanism summoned this specter from the glowing flower. He couldn't believe that his horseshit rated higher than her attachment to her beloved twin. 

At least, Wilson thought, his heart sinking, that wouldn't be the case if she trusted him like he thought she did. He _thought_ they were friends--actual, genuine friends--and as much as it made him bitter to think they were otherwise he absolutely refused to fault Wendy for it (he'd gotten good at beating his first instincts down when they sounded like his parents). As he sat there watching Wendy pack with shaking hands he repeatedly reminded himself that she made him her companion by desperation, not free choice. 

Relative trust aside, there was still the question of what this thing was to her. Did Wendy think it was her sister dragged back from beyond the grave? Was she glad to see her twin again or did she regret disturbing her afterlife? Or did Wendy think this was some denizen of the island fashioned by Maxwell into the likeness of her sister? Was she grateful enough for the help to make up for seeing her own face reflected back? 

Watching Wendy lean into Abigail, then draw away suddenly when she met no resistance, Wilson hypothesized that the answer was 'all of the above'. In any case, he wasn't in any position to ask her any personal questions, let alone something so deeply painful (since she clearly didn't consider him as much of a friend as he did her). Not after the way he snapped at her the night before, or the new revelation that she was still keeping pretty big secrets from him. Not that he begrudged Wendy her privacy, the holes in her life story that rang clear as a bell, but something about the secret of the red flower rubbed him the wrong way. Probably because Abigail was apparently helpful in battle (he doubts knocking his staff around the serpent's mouth took it down). He gathered from her trembling mutterings that summoning Abigail cost a life (big as a stone-born snake or small as a butterfly) as well as severely rattling Wendy's own nerves. The effects on her sanity might be seen as a reason not to do it, but then again Wendy never seemed as bothered by the things she should be bothered by (like the unnaturally opaque darkness as absolute as a deep cave only a step away from a torch). A small price to pay when she's safe at camp, and with another body to help her get back to stable... 

Wilson shook his head, his mouth pulled down into a grimace that had nothing to do with his bandaged arm or spasming leg (well, maybe a little to do with those things). His fingers already found the scar through the glove (kid leather, just like she guessed). A little bit of blood wasn't a great price to pay, either, and yet he had to circle the silver knife like it was going to bite him for days before he finally did it. The threat of pain didn't even register as a concern. There was the risk and the fear of damaging his tendons, but his hands were surgeon steady and he didn't need to cut that deep. Easy, easy, and oh so hard. Not to mention that he'd never bothered to replicate the science machine or alchemy machine standing as burned out husks in the ruins of his old camp (he stopped looking for it, eventually, he'd gone so far when drunk on greencaps he had no way of finding his way back). No need, when he still remembered the things it showed him. No need to examine what it actually _did_ , how he couldn't begin to explain how the inner workings, well, worked. 

Probably no need to dredge up the pain of a twin's passing and the double insult of having her or a cheap imitation of her floating around, not when Wendy had access to a second pair of more mundane hands. Silently chanting the mental mantra that he had no bloody right to judge anyone (and that Wendy owed him nothing), Wilson made his unsteady way to his feet (pulling himself up by his staff). Wendy was just finishing her breakfast of dried berries and toasted nuts, and while she still looked the part of a porcelain doll that is also haunted (hah! literally, by her sister or an unreasonable facsimile, Almighty God why is this place so _terrible_?) she wasn't twitching at nothing quite so often. They were, at least, somewhere in the vicinity of confident they could make it back by nightfall. 

After a brief discussion (which started out distant and formal but quickly fell back into familiar patterns, to Wilson's relief) they decided to strap the two snakes in whole to the sled. The puffballs were dumped unceremoniously onto the grass to make room, to maybe be retrieved later or maybe left to rot (depending on how their recovery went). Wendy pulled the sled of snakes and Wilson put all his energy into remaining upright and leading the way back to their camp. They had to stop often (Wilson to rest his leg and Wendy to pluck up the cloying flowers she hated anytime she came across one) and made it back just as the sun touched the horizon. 

Tired and hurt though he was Wilson looked forward to experimenting with the venom of the beasts, but it turned out all the care he took in dissection (to avoid another return to being a golden statue) was unnecessary as the glands had turned to gold. Wilson was disappointed, but Wendy pointed out that the glands, combined with their stockpile of nuggets, yielded enough gold to cover materials for the lightning rods Wilson wanted to build throughout the ruins (for such a pessimistic girl she could be quite the optimist). 

The eyes transformed as well. They had an unnatural metallic gleam when the creatures still breathed but they were still definitely _eyes_ , something living made of flesh. After death they turned into amalgams of gold and green crystal. The whispers of knowledge at the back of Wilson's mind gave him the feeling that the eyes were good for something but he couldn't say what. Wendy was similarly hesitant to break them open to separate gold from crystal, and so they ended up sitting idle in a crate salvaged from the beach (and if they kept the unsettling things outside the camp's walls, well, that was their business). 

The rest of the snakes' corpses yielded more expected spoils. A fair amount of familiar greasy monster flesh, four fangs sharp and sturdy enough to be turned into stiletto daggers, a great stack of thin rib bones that remained slightly flexible even when dried, and two lengths of tough, scaly hide. It took a little experimentation but by the time the first flakes of snow fell they had matching sets of armor a little tougher and a lot more comfortable than the wooden chest plates they'd been using before , with just enough left over for two sets of reinforced winter boots. 

"Fashionable," Wendy deadpanned as they both tried on the finished constructions. She tugged at the edges of her armor, making sure the beefalo leather base was properly attached to the layer of snake ribs woven with rabbit hide lacing. She'd only just begun to embroider a simple design along the edges of the bright green scales overtop it all. 

Wilson waved vaguely around at the savage world around them. "I mean, by the local standards I'd say we're fit for Paris." He sat at his desk wiggling his toes in his new shoes. Took a couple prototypes of less-valuable materials tried and tested over the course of the previous two seasons, but they finally figured out how to attach a wooden sole (with a carefully carved toe guard) to the bottom of the things. The beefalo leather with the wool still intact and turned inwards (as well as added felt to make the wooden sole more comfortable) made them smell like the beasts, but there's no doubt they'd be warm. 

As he inspected the fit of his shoes (paying particular care to his bum side) Abigail floated between them, her ghostly head tilted towards her living companion's feet. Wilson grinned up at her, having long since filed away her existence under 'don't have the energy to argue'. "Sorry, my dear, there was only enough applesnake leather for two and you don't get frostbite like we do, you clever girl." 

Wendy did the thing where she looked amused without smiling, head tilted. Wilson found himself using _extremely_ familiar, fond language with Abigail, far moreso than he'd dream with Wendy (well, he might dream, but he knew better than to fall back into the trap of misunderstanding what they were to each other). Wendy didn't seem to mind, and he was pretty sure that the slight flare of light and momentary increase in levitation meant Abigail liked the attention. 

Wendy's own interactions with the ghost were... stilted. Wilson didn't know if Wendy had real conversations with Abigail when he wasn't around, but he certainly hadn't seen it in action (probably too painful to confront the question of if she was or wasn't her actual dead twin dragged across the divide). Wilson was more than happy chattering to the apparition, explaining what he was doing when she hovered curiously at his side (he mumbled to himself when he worked in any case). The arrangement seemed to work for everyone involved. 

The trees dropped apples onto the ground through the rest of autumn, and the two of them returned every few days to gather what fell. Some of the apples were the same mildly toxic mottled green and purple, but the majority transmuted into various solid-colored forms after the death of their guardians. The literal golden apples, at least, were obvious in their nature. The rest remained fruit though with wildly different effects. 

The mottled ones they made a treat of, hollowing them out and roasting them stuffed with finely diced pumpkin and birchnuts candied in honey, as well as using them in more substantial dishes (Wilson found the apple-rabbit meatballs to be surprisingly tasty). The solid green ones behaved like a normal tart apple and were delightfully refreshing when eaten raw. A couple of the mottled and the green were sacrificed to preservation experiments, some going into the pickling brine and others being sliced into disks (as thin as they could get them with a stone knife) to be strung up with the mushrooms to dry. 

A bushel or so more (Wilson had no idea what actually constituted a 'bushel') they took down to the pig village. 

"These ones," Wilson said, waggling the apple in his right hand, "they're a bit tart but very good to eat just like this. Now this one," he waggled the one in his left, "also tart, also a bit poison." 

"Poison in the way of the flesh of fallen fell beasts," Wendy helpfully added. 

Abigail did that moan that didn't sound particularly troubled (though it did sound as if it was coming from another room even when everyone involved was standing out in the open). The king and villagers didn't so much as glance sideways at Abigail, which ultimately confirmed little. It could be that they'd seen her before, it could be they wouldn't care one way or another about ghosts (or whatever she was). 

The king regarded them thoughtfully. Usually he squinted at what they had to offer and either waved his dismissal or beckoned his acceptance. This was the only time he'd looked interested in the proceedings, if barely (aside from the time Wendy first presented Wilson at court, such as it was). He looked at Wilson, then Wendy, then held out his hands (cloven like a real pig, but with added flexibility and an extra somewhat opposable digit filling the function of a human thumb). Wilson dutifully handed the two apples over. 

"Consider those a gift, your majesty, a token of goodwill." Wilson said. It practically feltl delirious, this having _too much_ of something. A year ago (by island time, anyhow) Wilson wouldn't have dared hope he'd ever have two apples to spare. 

The king hmphed and, with no fanfare, popped the whole of the green one in his mouth and started crunching. The purple-green he handed to an attendant who whisked it and the basket they brought with them away, returning with a small pouch of gold nuggets which Wendy graciously accepted (the pig king did not _barter_ , the pig king _decrees_ ). 

They stood there, only slightly awkwardly, as the king finished savoring his apple (core and all) and Wendy quietly counted their payment and informed her companions that the going rate was about the same as dried monster jerky. At long last the King swallowed with an audible gulp and then leveled a keen eye at his guests (too keen, it seemed, to be coming from one of the pigmen, king or no). 

"Friend," the king said to Wilson, "this food bite you?" 

Wilson looked down at the bandage still wrapped around his arm (the punctures were healing nicely, thankfully they didn't sink deep enough to do any real damage to the muscle). "Ah, yes, your majesty. Not the apples themselves, mind, but the creatures guarding them." 

"Serpents," Wendy added. 

The king nodded. "We let the food bite you, and bite what food you bring." 

They had discussed the possibility, however slim, of the pigmen taking over the grove (they didn't usually stray from their village but, you know, _apples_ ). Wilson relaxed at the declaration. If the village had taken the grove he wouldn't have been able to fault them for it, but still ( _apples_ ). 

"You are most gracious," Wendy curtseyed deep. "We humbly accept your benediction." 

Wilson bent his head in a significantly less formal bow, the dull pain in his gut a constant companion he didn't rile unless necessary. "What she said." 

Wendy elbowed his arm and he couldn't help but smile. 

"You bring two foods," the king continued. "More foods there?" 

"Ah, yes sir, but they don't look to be good for eating." 

Something in the air shifted, it seemed, and Wilson found himself sliding from explaining apples to a toddler of a pig to being very aware he was in the presence of one who _ruled_. The king leaned forward conspiratorially, speaking more to Wendy than Wilson. 

"You fish in pond, you get fish. You fish in _lake_ , sometimes, you get more than fish." 

Wilson glanced at Wendy, who looked... surprised (maybe?). Like that meant something to her, aside from practical advice about literal fishing in the lake (Wilson long ago learned to let go of his pole entirely if the resistance on the other end was too great). The king sat back and he was only a particularly large dumb pigman yet again, and the two of them made their farewells (with Abigail trailing, still ignored, behind). 

Halfway to the makeshift market Wilson pulled Wendy aside. "Are you okay?" 

Wendy opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it again. At length she shook her head and looked away. "I am as I always am. It is too much to explain." 

Wilson laughed nervously. "Well, I mean, whatever it was that meant to you don't think too hard on it. Nothing against the guy but even the king isn't all that intelligent. If we found an encyclopedia washed up on the shore he'd probably try to eat it." 

"You are correct," Wendy said, almost more to herself than to Wilson. "The king is decidedly unintelligent. He is, however, unfathomably wise." 

She walked away without any further explanation. 

"Well okay then," Wilson said to no one. To Abigail (straying in Wendy's direction but hanging back momentarily for Wilson's sake), he said, "She's a puzzle, your sister is." 

Abigail emitted a barely audible hum and then dashed (floated) off towards the market. Wilson, bemused, followed at a distance.


	19. Don't Forget to Write the Science Down

Back at camp they had further experiments to make on the 'more foods, not good eating' they had at hand. 

The flesh of the solid purple-skinned apples was black as pitch and smelled strongly of copper. Wilson might be a scientist through and through and he believed in verifying a hypothesis with hard data, but even he was willing to declare that one poison right away. They strung chunks of those on twine and tied them to posts set among Wilson's latest farming endevor, and after no more than a day he was hauling two dead gobblers out from the middle of his transplanted berry bushes (thankfully the purple apples were poisonous enough to kill the damnable birds but not so poison as to render their meat inedible). 

They made a proper Thanksgiving feast of it all. Wendy, for all she was born in America, grew up sequestered in a transplanted English household and returned to the homeland when she was only eight (she freely offered that tidbit, though she still held onto how long ago eight-years-old was for her). As such she had little experience with the holiday. Wilson explained the festivities as they gorged themselves on an embarrassing wealth of gobbler meat stuffed with diced veggies and smothered in a passable approximation of cranberry sauce courtesy of the bushes the stupid birds had died robbing. 

"Basically, you've got your standard harvest festival boiled down to a single extended family's tabletop," Wilson said around a wad of stuffing. 

Wendy similarly delighted in a departure from common good manners by deliberately chewing with her mouth full. Abigail did the side to side bounce she did when she thought something was funny, her glowing eyes on Wendy. 

"How long has this tradition existed?" 

"I think it was a thing here and there for a while but it became official when they had their one civil war. I looked it up." 

Wendy swallowed, a considering look on her face. "So instead of having a proper village fair they willingly trap themselves in a confined space with their relatives?" She grimaced (while she still had many secrets the fact that she hated the necessary confinement of her childhood was not one of them). 

Wilson's wild gesture splattered some sauce on the dirt. "Exactly! The born and bred American operators clogged up the lines moaning about it when the time drew near. Not that I particularly blamed them given that escaping dinner parties was one of the best things about crossing the pond." (he still had his secrets but the fact that he hated being made into a stuffed suit was not one of them) "The general idea is that the concept originated with the natives helping out the early colonists but, you know, that went the way it usually does for natives when England decides they like something." 

Her childhood illness might have sheltered her from much of the world, but someone gave Wendy access to more than the 'official' story. "For a diminutive nation we do cause a clamor, do we not?" 

Wilson raised his drumstick in a mock toast. "To England, Miss Wendy! We will steal your land and charge you to live on it." 

"You forgot the wanton bloodshed." She looked around their little piece of relative civilization. "Hmm... are we colonists?" 

"IIIIIIIII hope not?" Wilson winced, thinking of his deadly (for them) encounter with werepigs. "I think we're shipwrecked souls trying not to die." 

"Robinson Crusoe, then." 

"Well," Wilson thought of the long-ago promise of knowledge, "it's not Treasure Island." 

It took a couple trips to the grove before they found their first red apple. The hue was brighter than any real apple had any business being (in contrast to the perfectly mundane bright green ones). On the trip back to camp the solitary apple sat on top of a basket full of greens and green-purples and Wilson found himself glancing at it from time to time, unnerved, the whole trip back. 

Once they returned the discussion quickly became an argument (a bit strained towards the worst of it but lacking the infected heat experienced during the short summer that managed to last oh so long). Finally Wilson sat with his back to his desk rolling the red apple in his hands. Wendy stood over him (as much as she could, at least, even with him seated she was impressively small), hands delicately folded and a searing glare in her soft gray eyes. 

"I will permit to you 'be the gentleman'," she began, her words dripping with venom more potent than the stuff spider queens cart around, "in spite of your condition rendering you more susceptible to poison than I am--" 

"I'm not going to eat the whole thing, just a couple bites." 

"-- _on the condition_ of you admitting that Goethe's Faust is superior to The Picture of Dorian Gray." 

"... What? You're the one always going on about subjective value and the same thing meaning about five different things to two people. Faust means more to you and Dorian Gray means more to me and that's fine." 

"On any other day I would agree but on this day you have _vexed_ me and I _will_ have my retribution." 

"Dorian Gray is better on sheer merit of being written by Oscar Wilde. Was this Goathae--" 

"Goethe." 

"--a great awkward man who responds to threats of fisticuffs with the cool comment that his standard is to shoot on sight? If not I think we know who the winner is." 

"Did that actually happen?" 

"Regardless of whether it did or not that's how the man reported events which says something even if it was made up. Did Goethe--" 

"--Goathae--" 

"--ever tell a story like that?" 

Wendy snatched the red apple from his hands and raised it very deliberately to her open mouth. 

"Bloody well fine!" Wilson snatched at it but she danced out of his reach. "I admit that a dry quasi-religious moral whatever is better than sheer perfection, okay?" 

"That will suffice." Wendy reluctantly handed the apple to him, unhappy but with a hint of smugness after her passable victory. "I still do not approve." 

Wilson folded his arms, tucking the apple into the crook of his elbow so she couldn't get at it again. "It's only fair I take the risk this time since you decided to poison yourself right before snakes happened." 

She stood there for a moment and Wilson got the distinct impression she was counting to ten in her head. "I will allow this only on merit of 'snakes happening' as you say, which I should have predicted." 

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth since you're agreeing with me, but why the hell should you have known about it? I mean, aside from most things on this island trying to kill us." 

Wendy's glare could've melted steel and brokered _absolutely_ no argument. " _Proceed_." 

In sharp contrast to the tart green apples the red was sweet. Overwhelmingly so. Not sweet like honey, which had body and 'notes' like wine snobs always went on about. The apple was just _sweet_ with nothing else to it. Not even an appley fruity taste. 

Wilson swallowed his mouthful and started explaining all this to Wendy. She frowned, and he blinked. When Wilson closed his eyes the sky was still blue (just a couple shades off from a proper sky blue, enough difference to be unnerving). When he opened them the last reddish-purple streaks were on their way to fading from the sky (stars, stars, none of the constellations right). It took him a groggy few moments to comprehend that instead of sitting he was laying on his back in the packed dirt with a wad of something reasonably comfortable under his head. His limbs felt leaden and his thoughts were wrapped in thick layers of cotton, though that heavy press faded by the second. He stirred more noticeably and heard a sharp intake of breath. 

With minor difficulty Wilson pried his eyes open. Wendy sat there beside him, embroidery frame dropping to her lap. Her held breath turned into a long, relieved sigh. 

"Thank you kindly," she said, crisp as a newly minted bill. 

"You're... welcome?" Wilson propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed his eyes. "What happened?" 

Abigail darted in to bend over him and stare with her glowing eyes, a concerned hum sounding somewhere in the lower registers. 

"Don't worry, my girl, I'm fine. Uh, I think?" 

Wendy was still sitting there like she'd been starched stiff. "I believe so. It would appear that Snow White's stepmother has graced us with a gift." 

It took Wilson a second to sort through that. "Ah. A sedative, then?" He nodded, considering. "Makes sense, the color was off putting indicating perhaps something was amiss, but not obviously poison as the purple ones are..." He frowned. "Are you okay? Oh, damn, I must've given you a fright." 

"Indeed." 

They weren't strangers to comfortable silences, but this one didn't seem to be of that particular breed. For once Wilson let it stretch on until Wendy broke it. 

"I worried it truly was like Snow White's apple," she said, looking a tad embarrassed. "A romantic assumption, I suppose, though I would argue not unwarranted given the abundance of folklore gathered around the orchard." 

Wilson stared at her. "Why wouldn't it be Snow White, if it's anything? I mean, the apple put me to sleep." 

"It put you to sleep, yes, but you woke on your own." 

"... I know there's a meaning here that I'm missing but in my defense I just woke up" 

Wendy sighed and turned her eyes towards the sky. "I thought I might have to kiss you to revive you." 

She didn't look _queasy_ at the thought, exactly, but the look on her face was a close friend of queasy. Something in Wilson's mind (something shoved back into a corner and missing its teeth) snarled it's insult. The rest of him followed his face in a grimace. There was his confirmation at her fears, though at least this seemed less directed at him (emphasis on _kiss_ not on _you_ ). Wilson grasped at memories of Bright putting skittish patients at ease. He drew a painful blank aside from the undeniable fact that Bright was always so much better at this than he was. 

Then again, Wilson did do all right with patients who reminded him of his sister and Wendy reminded him of Vizzie sometimes (mainly the stubborn irritation at being treated as a fragile collection of ailments). Besides, committing to any tactic was probably better than the painfully awkward silence. 

"I must've given you _quite_ a scare if you took leave of your senses like that," Wilson said, maybe a touch too cheerfully but oh well. He pulled himself up into a proper sitting position and blinked at her lazily, leaning his weight back on his arms and doing his best to look relaxed. 

Wendy, for her part, looked faintly confused. "What?" 

"I mean, I wouldn't put it past this place to have some ludicrous condition like that..." he rolled his eyes and glared at the darkened sky. "Though I don't know if Maxwell is romantic enough to think of something like that." 

"He's a performer," Wendy said, almost to herself. "Of _course_ he's a romantic." 

Wilson paused and considered his interactions with the man (creature?). "He does have a showman's flair, I suppose." He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, it doesn't matter if he would or wouldn't since your kiss wouldn't work anyway." 

Wendy just tilted her head at him. 

"I..." Wilson bit his lip (he'd never voiced his hopes for a genuine friendship out loud, for fear of them being dashed), then forged on with diplomatic amendments, "I would like to think we're a good set of allies thrown together by necessity, but I seriously doubt we're anywhere near the territory of 'one true love' or whatever hogwash the tale was spouting." 

"The kiss dislodged a piece of apple from Snow White's mouth. You may be thinking of Briar Rose." Wendy's posture (though still perfect) softened and relaxed by fractions. More curious than wary. "'Hogwash'? Oh, I suppose you don't believe in love, like a proper rationalist?" 

"I _certainly_ believe in love. I've..." memories floated up and he squashed them down, still unsure and terrified of how much information Maxwell knew. "I've been in love." 

"Really?" Wendy's mouth formed an O. 

Wilson wasn't used to seeing her shocked when applesnakes weren't involved and couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I have. Love is real, in the romantic and non-romantic senses. It's basic biology, chemistry in the brain, a hardwired survival instinct that helps us to bond with and protect our fellows." 

"Sounds... clinical." 

"I mean, I was training to become a doctor." Wilson shrugged. "Anything I say is bound to be tainted with the vocabulary." 

Wendy peered at him. She wasn't outright disapproving, as many tended to be (the romantics irritated about chemistry and the obnoxious sort of scientific cynic irritated about his continued romanticism). "So... you believe love is just a function of the mind?" 

"' _Just_ ' is misleading. I mean, the human heart is _just_ a pump." Wilson splayed a hand over his own chest, feeling the rhythm under his ribs. "Four chambers of muscle working together in synchronized harmony to move blood around the body. The mechanics are simple enough to understand, it's easy enough to learn the structures and vessels and everything provided you've got the memory for it. It's a muscle moved by signals from the most basic part of the brain, tuned by hormones telling us what to feel. But it doesn't matter!" He found himself grinning at Wendy, wild with knowledge. "Knowing how it works doesn't steal any meaning from the way my heart races when I see someone I'm falling for, or how my chest actually physically hurts when I lose them." 

Wilson's voice cracked, a little, on that last bit. He shook his head and pushed on. 

"So, anyway, to answer your question I do believe in love." He dropped his hand from his chest and rolled his eyes. "It's just this stupid notion of there only being _one_ true love or soulmate or whatever for anyone. I loved a girl when I was a teenager, and okay, maaaaybe we were both a bit dim about our actual chances at an intense summertime crush actually lasting after my family returned to London from the country where she lived, but that doesn't mean what I felt wasn't _real_. Later on--" Wilson realized he was straying dangerously close to honesty (not that he _lied_ to Wendy, not outright, but omissions were their bread and butter) and reigned himself in. "--well, we had more staying power but ultimately we didn't work out. Which wasn't the fault of either of us." (even an ocean and a world removed it still _hurt_ , how it ended) "These things just happen, you know. Making people feel like they've only got one shot with one person is the kind of rubbish that makes people anxious about romance, which is already a minefield as it is..." 

Wilson realized he was babbling and shut his mouth with an audible click. 

Wendy gazed at him consideringly, apparently digesting his rant. "So, you believe love is both a scientific fact and something akin to a miracle? Seems a bit contradictory." 

"In my experience if there's anything love is, it's contradictory." 

"Hmm..." Wendy looked a bit nervous again, though nothing like the coiled tension when he first woke. "So, Mr. Higgsbury... if I fell to a romantically minded curse, what would you do?" 

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and considered the question (quietly longing for the days when he'd never dream of genuinely worrying over curses, fairy tale style or otherwise). Even if he was willing to bet against it ever happening Wendy's question wasn't really about sleeping spells. "Even if we're talking medicinally I'd feel bloody _slimy_ kissing an unconsious woman... what about your forehead, or the back of your hand?" 

She leaned back, looking a tad surprised. "I... would that suffice?" 

"Depends on how it's all defined but if a kiss from anyone would work then I don't see why placement would matter." 

Wendy spoke slowly, doing a surprisingly bad job of hiding her genuine curiosity. "A meeting of soft lips means more, does it not? For romantic love, at least?" 

"Well, I mean, a meeting of lips is certainly fun--when all parties involved are , naturally--but it's hardly the only way to express romantic affection." Wilson felt himself drift wistful in spite of himself. He'd always been good at just... overlooking things. Sometimes in a practical sense like his eyes sliding right off the stack of glasses next to the sink (back when he still had a sink), sometimes he managed to ignore half of what was going on inside his own head. 

Affection. 

(the memory of a hand firm and warm and comforting on the back of Wilson's neck) 

"... Are you thinking of someone you love?" 

Wilson shook his head and reluctantly returned to reality (unreal as it was). "I... yeah. Past tense, I mean, loved not love, at least I think--" 

Wendy looked _very_ interested (and quite a bit relieved, probably because he knew he never got that kind of dopey look on his face looking at her) and the ever-present panic of discovery bubbled up in Wilson's gut. 

"--and, I mean, sorry, I don't think I should say any more. I just," he waved at the sky, the island in general, "I'm not convinced he's not listening and I don't want him knowing more things to torment me with." 

She pouted a bit, but nodded. "A fair precaution." Wendy picked her embroidery frame back up and looked over her work with a critical eye. "Speaking of precautions, should I fall to an unnatural slumber and cannot be roused, I would find a medicinal kiss to the forehead or back of the hand to be acceptable." 

"Good to know! And, uh, same, if it's me." Wilson looked around. "Where'd the rest of the apple go?" 

Just like that Wendy was back to embarrassed (thankfully without the cousin of queasy). "It is possible I threw it very hard in a random direction immediately after you fell to your slumber." 

Wilson stared at her for a moment, then collapsed back on the ground overcome with laughter. 

"Your mirth is unappreciated!" 

Aside from stockpiling supplies and having apple-related misadventures they each continued work on improving the ease of existence. Wendy figured out a better way to felt (with two of them he could hold the torch while she shaved the beasts, resulting in far more wool for her to do her own experiments on). Previously she could only manage a cohesive area of about and arm-length squared and it wasn't very thick. Now she labored over a huge reed mat slowly building up bits of wool dyed a variety of colors. Her hands and arms spent a long time reddened, between the hot water and the diluted spider venom (Wilson wasn't familiar with the process, but Wendy said that applying an acid helped the fibers to stick together), but by the time it got too cold for her to felt anymore she had produced four thick multicolored felt blankets. They were a bit stiff but wonderfully warm (Wilson was quite taken with the mottled colors as well). 

For his part, Wilson reinvented the wheel. It took a few tries (the thick wheel comprised of two layers of wooden boards was relatively easy, making a sturdy and functioning axel was decidedly less easy) but at last he was able to create a rough mule cart (minus the mule). When it came to chores in the safer areas around the ruins it proved invaluable even without a beast of burden at work (Wilson and Wendy idly entertained the idea of capturing a beefalo, but dismissed the idea as far too dangerous with only two of them there). While pulling the cart hurt Wilson's leg it didn't hurt it as much as taking multiple trips to get heavy baskets of fish or such back to camp, and it certainly saved time. 

Time enough for them to jointly embark on their next big project: building a roof. Between her slight frame and his leg they didn't have a prayer at a solid wooden construction, but with a little ingenuity Wilson was sure they could manage something of poles, rope, and canvas. 

It was a crisp morning in late autumn when they moved beyond planning and gathering of the preliminary materials. Wilson moved around the walls taking measurements with a long length of twine marked with tied bits of silk in various colors (black for a his estimated foot, red at a yard, yellow for inches, and every half-foot marked green), marking numbers down on papyrus with a trimmed piece of charcoal tied to the end of a twig. Meanwhile, Wendy passed a heavy bone needle laden with twine back and forth through wide patches of waxed canvas (the fabric traded at the pig village for baskets and antiseptic salve, the beehives provided the wax) constructing a prototype of the primitive gutters intended to direct rainwater into barrels more efficiently. Even if the roof wasn't strong enough to stand the downpours of spring they'd at least have waxed canvas funnels to make gathering rainwater all the easier. 

Wilson was sitting on the ground tallying figures (Abigail looking over his shoulder) when Wendy suddenly appeared beside him. 

"Mr. Higgsbury," Wendy looked down her nose at him, hands on her hips, and for a bare instant she reminded him very strongly of his mother. "You _will_ behave and endeavor to be polite. Are we understood?" 

Wilson did a fair impersonation of a gaping fish, the sudden demand doing a number on his head. "Wh--I--You-- _What the bloody hell did I do_?" 

"Watch your language, if you please." (crisp, but not distaining, nothing like _her_ ) "A guest is fast approaching." 

"I--What?" Shaking off the mental image (geeze, wouldn't it be _great_ if his subconscious wouldn't scare him and insult Wendy in the process?) Wilson climbed to his feet and gazed out in the same direction Wendy was looking. Across the field at the edge of the woods there was a spot of movement approaching fast, accompanied by the distant sound of hissing spiders. 

Wilson grabbed his staff and was at the armory chest before he even realized he was moving, switching his staff to his left hand and taking up a spear in his right. Before he could do anything else, step forward or cringe back (he _hated_ the spiders), Wendy once again appeared at his side and grabbed the spear from his hand. 

"What did I tell you?" 

Wilson reeled as logic struggled to keep up (the bulk of the hissing came from the direction of Wendy's spider cages, only riled, not advancing). Wendy looked annoyed, and also worried, and then he couldn't examine her expression because she was already halfway to their little courtyard. Wilson turned to Abigail and relaxed minutely when he saw her unconcernedly hovering there waiting patiently for him to move. Whatever was happening couldn't be a threat to Wendy (and by extension to Wilson) if Abigail wasn't looking murderous and flashing red. 

This still calm in his heart lasted for all of fifteen seconds. Then he saw spider legs (four feet off the ground) and just like that his staff was in his hands again. 

Then he heard the voice. Cheerful, childlike, hissing slightly on the Ss. 

"Wendy! Abigail! We missed you!"


	20. Along Came a Spider

Wilson watched dumbly as the creature breezed past Wendy's supposedly magical mines in a familiar zig-zag. It was more or less proportioned like a human with legs and a waist and a torso and arms but the face was unnaturally round. Oh, yeah, there was also the eight cloudy eyes and four twitching spider legs extending from the neck. The top of its head was level with Wilson's chest (and Wendy's shoulder). No semblance of clothing aside from a rough pack of twigs and dried grasses. The whole of the body was black and glinted with the light of the campfire's glow and the nearly full moon. 

It was reaching out and grabbing Wendy's hands. It was _talking_. 

"Wendy! We missed you so much, and--" it's face turned towards Wilson, whose heart hammered so loud he could barely hear its words. "Who's this?" 

Wendy gently ushered the creature forward, her hands on its shoulders. Above its head she delivered another sharp look Wilson's way even as she spoke gently. "Webber, I'd like you to meet Mr. Higgsbury." 

"Hello, Mr. Higgsbury!" it cheerfully waved. 

"Mr. Higgsbury, I'd like you to meet my friend Webber." 

Wilson found that one benefit of having propriety drilled into his head from an early age was that when he found himself in a situation beyond reckoning he could still reflexively manage the basic niceties. "Pleased to meet you," he rattled off, flat as Wendy's best. 

"Nice to meet you, too!" Oblivious to or ignoring Wilson's existential crisis, it whipped back around to wave cheerily at Abigail (underneath the insectoid chitter and hissing Ss the voice sounded like a young human, like a _child_ ). "Hi, Abigail! We're glad you're not sleeping!" 

Abigail, for her part, danced around as excited as Wilson ever saw her when a fight wasn't involved (like taking out a fully matured spider den _what in the bloody thrice be damned hell is this_ ). The fact she was skipping around the creature and Wendy was apparent in spite of her lack of legs. It ( _he_ , _Webber_ , what the _fuck_ happened to this child) laughed in a insectoid chitter that was no less a delighted carefree child's laugh and reached up. His hands passed through her but he held them up as if he held her hands while they bounced in a circle. 

When they came to a rest Wendy tussled the top of Webber's head (was that hair? fur? an exoskeleton? how did this even _work_ ) her face and voice all gentle fondness. "I am pleased you've come back to visit. It's been quite some time." 

"We know!" (why did he keep using the plural?) "We wish we could stay instead of just visiting." 

"Why don't you stay?" Wilson asked without thinking. He suppressed a shudder (living with those eight eyes always around the corner), frantic compassion and disgusted fear still vying for dominance. 

Webber drooped, the four spider legs sprouting from his neck included, shaking his head sadly (how can can eight expressionless spider eyes look _sad_ ), "This place makes us feel funny. We can't stay for that long, even though we want to! We miss Wendy and Abigail." 

Wendy drew him into a warm hug. "I've missed you, too, Webber, as has Abigail." 

"But you have a new friend!" He beamed at Wilson, revealing teeth sharp as fangs (did he have venom sacs? could he paralyze with a bite like the other spiders?). "We have friends, where we usually live, so even though we miss Wendy and Abigail we don't feel too lonely. Wendy and Abigail have each other but Wendy is always happier when she has another friend!" 

Distantly and a touch hysterically, Wilson wondered if it was the nature of the ruins that kept Webber away (with the exception of the reluctant hounds none of the larger beasts dared get close, even the damnable dragonfly buzzed angrily at a distance instead of laying waste as it so _clearly_ wanted to). By the rules of this twisted world would Webber count as another of Maxwell's pawns or one of the beastly denizens? 

The child (creature? _both_?) glanced his way and Wilson felt his throat clench up as if the very cells remembered the venom. 

"I should go fetch some more wood," Wilson announced (woodenly, hah), reaching for a lantern and lashing it to the end of his staff by muscle memory. "For the fire." 

Wendy's eyebrows made an impressive climb towards her hairline. She glanced towards the wall and the sizeable stack of firewood they both knew was on the other side, but then again they both knew that's not why he was grabbing an ax and moving towards the threshold of their very humble abode. Wilson did this enough back when they were still fighting or when an experiment or project frustrated him. Usually it was a choice, though, a conscious decision to walk out and spend his anger on something constructive rather than stay and say something he'd regret. Not this, not... 

(his whole body one overwound spring and his nerves keyed to the point they practically vibrated like needing to escape one of his parents' dinner parties and feeling trapped on all sides except instead of judgement he needed to escape the legs and chitter and fangs and eyes and he needed out he needed out) 

"Wait," Wendy called, and he only barely managed to pause his hasty retreat. "Take this parcel with you, if you please." 

Wilson didn't turn to look at her (he might catch sight of Webber out of the corner of his eye, all shiny black segmented legs). He just held out his hand as Wendy rustled through things through the camp (Webber chattering away to Abigail) and as soon as he registered the weight of the small grass-twine woven satchel he slung it over his shoulder and was gone. It was a blur and then a tree was falling down and he leaned against the half-chopped second and sucked in the clean fresh air that felt sharp as broken glass and tasted sour. When he was done with that he scrubbed his face with his hands and growled in directionless frustration. He glared up at the sky and he didn't know if he was glaring at the idea of Maxwell or a God he no longer believed in and either way it made no difference because this particular demon resided inside Wilson's own skull. 

Between the leaning and a few more solid whacks the second tree fell. Mechanical as one of the clockwork chess pieces he looped the rope around and drug them to the thick stump designated for wood-chopping duties. Not so close as to see them moving around in the ruins but close enough to hear the occasional distant murmur. Mostly laughter on the part of the creature (child! spider! boy!). At that distance the unnatural insectoid sounds running under Webber's words were inaudible, leaving the sound of a delighted young boy visiting friends. 

Wilson stared at the ruins, then turned back to his work. He stripped the smaller branches for crafting and kindling with a million thoughts buzzing in his head like so many bees. He didn't like feeling so out of control of his body (he didn't like the limp or his lowered resistance to toxins but this was a whole different level of betrayal). He didn't know how to stop it, though. Even leaving the ruins didn't stop his pounding heart and shaking hands. 

Somewhere in the incomprehensible din (his mother's voice, his father's voice, his brother's silence, countless hissing spiders) a memory of his sister drifted up like smoke. When she got frustrated with her traitor of a body, she said, she'd dig into her scrap wire and twist them into little sculptures while going over an itemized list of her grievances and working out which one was causing her the most trouble. Even if she couldn't solve it _knowing_ what it was did wonders. 

Wilson was still stuck on the concept when he belatedly remembered the satchel Wendy gave him. Walking back to where he tossed it down when he felled the trees he found flint and dry grasses for a fire, a sizeable wooden canteen full of water, and enough jerky, nuts, and dried berries to last him a couple days. Somewhat numb, he sipped the water on the way to the two felled trees stripped of branches and waiting beside the stump ready for work. 

Not quite wire sculptures, but it would do. Wilson started cutting the trees down to workable lengths. _Thunk_ went the ax in a familiar rhythm. 

_Thunk._

So. Start with the easy and obvious. 

_Thunk._

Easy. Was Webber dangerous? Even wound up as he was Wilson didn't think so. Webber had Wendy (and Abigail's) approval and besides, he seemed like such an intensely sweet child. Incredibly well mannered, clearly delighted to be in their company even though the ruins must make him some kind of uncomfortable if he didn't stay. Granted, that could be an act, but Wilson had to force himself to consider it and even then it rang hollow. 

_Thunk._

The boy wasn't a threat. So why was Wilson's heart racing? 

_Thunk._

Wilson hated the island's spiders. He hated them because he feared them. They certainly weren't the only thing he was afraid of but they unsettled him in a visceral way even the surprise applesnakes failed to do. Because he feared and hated the spiders anything with qualities matching the spiders (eight eyes, dental structure, insectoid vocal patterns, twitching legs) would set him off like jabbing a deep bruise. 

He was familiar enough with the effect through his medical studies. Someone who was injured in a factory being unable to take the sound of machinery, or the victim of a dog bite startling at dist One of the more dramatic examples was when they'd brought in a patient who'd been forced and it happened to be that Bright wore the same cologne as her attacker. The poor woman even apologized to Bright as her body all but carried on without her, perfectly aware that he wasn't the man who raped her but still she kept trying to edge away. 

(as soon as they got home Bright dumped the nearly full bottle down the sink, coincidence or not he didn't want any part in something that kind of a monster liked) 

Unlike some of his peers Wilson never thought poorly of patients who had that base survival response. As children he'd seen his brother scolded for jerking away when a tutor examined what turned out to be a badly sprained wrist and Wilson himself absolutely _hated_ the lack of control that came when someone tickled him. As far as he was concerned he might as well be annoyed that someone sneezed in response to dust. 

Still, there was a difference between understanding a concept in the abstract and experiencing it like a brick to the temple. 

_Thunk._

Exposure was the only way to deal with the spider-association. Bound to be long and messy and he could already hear himself apologizing for accidentally teaching Webber how to swear, but now that Wilson knew of Webber's existence he could find ways to cope. 

_Thunk._

Right. Knowing of Webber's existence. That was a sticking point, wasn't it? Wendy kept something from him, something _major_ , yet again. It wasn't like Wilson trusted her with his life story but he did trust her with his _life_ even though she _kept doing this_. He'd rather disembowel himself than raise a hand to her but _damn_ if she didn't make him want to take her by the shoulders and _shake_ her. 

_Thun-thun-thump._

(Wilson blinked, with creeping embarrassment, at the flipped over bit of tree trunk with the ax still sticking out of it at an odd angle. he retrieved the tool with a firm wrench and set about stacking the logs for easy access when he split them into firewood) 

The anger bled away with relative swiftness. He'd done his share of observation (probably more than his fair share, let's be honest) in the wake of Abigail's summoning. There were aspects of Wendy's behavior that made him think she wasn't as in control as her deliberate grace implied. It could be she kept things from Wilson deliberately, it could be that her time on the island traumatized her to such a degree she could barely keep what she knew in order. 

Besides, what would she have said? That she knows a boy who might drop by to visit (emphasis _might_ , even if Webber left the day before Wilson arrived that was still an island year with no sign of him)? Oh and, by the way, he's a spider? Wilson was still struggling with not being an ass about her supposedly magical gems and he expects her to tell him about a human-creature hybrid who might never show up again? 

Wendy was infuriating, but then again, so was Wilson. Upsetting as some of her omissions might be he had no right to judge her poorly on how she handled her own personal ordeals. Or any right to judge her on the shape of her mental scars. 

_Thwack_ went the log as it split. 

Why not burrow down to the heart of it? 

_Thwack._

Wilson saw it so often with his sister. People declared her lazy for not powering through her condition and somehow coming out on the other side unscathed (as though force of will had any great effect on polio-stricken muscles). Maybe it was somehow her fault for getting sick in the first place. It could be some defect in her lungs or heart or whatever organ they cared to pull out of a hat. Or there were the (mostly) men who'd blame her supposedly fragile femaleness for her sickness. 

Sometimes the fault would shift over to her parents for some imagined neglect in their child's health, which was particularly laughable. Wilson and his two siblings were encouraged in physical activities from an early age (taking long walks, cycling, horse riding when they holidayed in the country), and they were fed hearty, healthful meals. When Vizzie did fall ill their parents immediately sent Wilson and his brother away to keep them from catching it too, their mother nursed Vizzie night and day, and their father spent all his time and energy making sure she had the best care they could possibly manage. 

(it was never that Wilson's parents didn't love him, or Vizzie, or Jack. but that real love manifested in 'knowing what's best' and while the path they had in mind for their children might've beautifully fit the children they expected to have it definitely didn't fit the children they got. at least, not with the younger two) 

Years ago a particularly wise doctor of Vizzie's (the man Wilson thought of when his parents suggested he become a doctor himself) explained why people would think such awful things about an ill little girl. It had to be her fault, or her parents' fault, or her gender's fault, it had to be _somebody's_ fault because if it was no one's fault, well. Most people rejected the notion of tragedy outside of the victim's control because if it wasn't the victim's fault that meant it could happen to anyone. It could happen to them. 

What happened to Webber? Could Wilson be cursed in the same way? How could he even _begin_ to cope with that? 

_Twack._

He could ask Wendy what happened (Webber probably didn't want to talk about it). Maybe it's easy to avoid if you know what you're looking for, and if not there's no point dwelling on it. Easier said than done, granted, but maybe turning into a spider-hybrid was the island's version of the risk of being hit by a mad driver anytime you step onto a city street (ever-present and if you spend all your time fearing the chance of it then you'll never get any living done). 

_Thwack._

City streets. 

_Thwack._

A different kind of dread (more cerebral) settled its weight into Wilson's stomach. 

_Thwack._

Abigail's appearance made Wilson rethink Wendy's apparent unwillingness to find a way off the island. He could understand a person's reluctance to part from an identical twin, even if it was only a shade of said twin. There wasn't any hard evidence to suggest that Abigail's flower wouldn't work when they crossed back over but general sense and assumption would lean heavily towards it not. That, then, was a question whose answer might shift by the second depending on if Wendy felt warm or cold towards Abigail (Wilson had been around the two of them long enough to tell there was a rise and fall in Wendy's tolerance of the ghost. some days she plainly took great comfort in Abigail's presence. some days she turned a shoulder colder than winter). 

Webber, though. Whether he was a child cursed into monstrous form by the island or a cruel creation of Maxwell's, really the effect was the same. Spider or human Webber appeared to be a young boy. Wilson, even with all his spider issues and only having barely met, was unwilling to leave Webber behind. Wilson could hardly imagine Wendy would leave without him, after she acted so uncharacteristically fond. 

What kind of life could Webber have? Maybe there's a cure (or, if he started out spider, a way to complete the transformation) but Wilson didn't know if Webber even wanted that. If not, what would they do? Lock the boy up in Wilson's cottage for the rest of his miserable life? 

_Thwack._

There's a clearer picture. 

_Thwack._

(when did everything get so complicated?) 

_Thwack._

Anything else? 

_Thwack._

Oh, what the hell. 

_Thwack._

Might as well beat that dead horse. Or would it be beefalo? 

_Thwack._

Maybe Wendy wasn't uncharacteristically fond with Webber. 

_Thwack._

Maybe she was just constantly out of sorts in Wilson's company. 

_Thwack._

Maybe Wilson felt stupidly jealous when Webber hugged her. 

_Thwack._

Maybe in the year of island time they'd spent in each other's company this was the first bloody time he'd even seen Wendy honest-to-God _smile_. 

_Thwack._

Maybe he needed to get the fuck over himself. 

...... There wasn't any more wood to cut. 

Wilson briefly considered felling another tree, but the first two were already unnecessary and he really did need to get on with it. The ghost of a fond grin graced his lips as he considered that Vizzie would be smug as hell if she could see him. She was right; not all the problems were solved but they were identified and Wilson did feel he had a better handle on things. And dealing with the chittering would be a good distraction from wondering what his beloved baby sister thought about his disappearance, excellent, everything in order time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just recently went back to check continuity and discovered that the entire 8th chapter was in italics due to bad tags. If I miss something like that please let me know! I'm already writing in dense paragraphs and run ons, I don't want to be more of an issue for readability. XD
> 
> I actually didn't plan on Webber being present for long but since multiple comments boiled down to WEBBER :D I might have to expand his role in this one.


	21. The Ape is a Social Creature

After making short work of a handful of trail mix (he'd been gone long enough the others would have eaten something for lunch) Wilson scooped up an armful of firewood to justify his absence and left the rest of the pile to be gathered later, leaving the nearly worn out ax stuck in the splitting stump. When he returned he found Webber and Abigail spinning around each other and laughing (well, Webber laughed, Abigail hummed) while Wendy looked on with gentle fondness. 

Wilson faltered a bit as he stepped through the mines, watching the scene in the courtyard (a dissonance of wondering if the real Abigail would dance around like that, the horror of Webber being stuck in a monstrous form and what that meant about escape, and a mostly intentionally forgotten longing for someone who loved him watching over their kids as if he wasn't too broken for a normal life even before his radio started talking to him). 

"Mr. Higgsbury!" Webber called when he caught sight of the approaching figure at the end of a few dizzy spins. "Do you need us to help you?" 

Now prepared for the chitter Wilson felt a rising uneasiness, a shadow of his earlier raw panic. "No, no, it's all right. I wouldn't want to keep you from catching up with Abigail." 

Webber beamed (his eyes remained static and unmoving but he had such expressive body language he was easy to read as a newspaper). "Okay! Maybe we can help you later? We like making new friends." 

Wilson's gut reactions were by no means dispelled in the face of this boy's incredibly friendly demeanor but he did feel the knot of tense readiness between his shoulder blades loosen. "I quite like making new friends as well." 

"Perhaps," Wendy said from her perch on top of one of the stabler bits of ruined wall on the courtyard's edge, "Webber and Abigail should play while Wilson and myself properly suspend what we were working on. Then we can all take tea and have a proper chat." 

Teatime was a novel concept in itself after a few years spent in America and an indeterminate time spent alone in the wilderness, and Wendy and Wilson didn't typically bother with a formalized afternoon or even midday meal (breakfast and supper were had at standard times but in between subsistence was taken as needed in the form of several snacks). Wilson found the idea of taking tea comforting for both nostalgia and because it introduced an element of formality to the proceedings of getting to know the boy (while he always hated being dragged to stiff formal events he didn't want to go to there was always a certain comfort in having a readymade script for conversation with strangers). 

Webber clapped his hands (the human-ish ones, could he grasp with the legs sprouting from his neck and shoulders?) at Wilson's approving nod, who couldn't help the frown when Wendy smiled at Webber again. He quickly looked away, wrestling his own thoughts (there were ghosts of smiles, sometimes, when she looked at what might be her twin's ghost, but nothing so obvious and genuine, definitely not directed Wilson's way, he'd been dreaming they'd ever be more than allies of convenience what does he even _want_ from her why can't he get his expectations to shut _up_ she owes him _nothing_ ) and when he looked back Wendy was staring at him (fuck). Head tilted and soft gray eyes filled with such intensity that he felt she could see him at a cellular level. 

Wilson walked past Wendy through the threshold and busied himself filling the rack by the kitchen firepit. He heard the thump as she dismounted the wall and nothing thereafter (damn light footed flatmates) but he wasn't surprised when he stood and she was standing right there still staring at him. 

"What?" Wilson asked, a hair confrontationally (she acted like she might've understood why he acted that way, even packed him enough food that he could stay away a couple days if need be, why is she surprised he's off kilter?) 

She stared and stared and finally nodded, as if coming to a conclusion, and declared, "You are a truly stupid boy." 

Wendy said it with the certainty that gravity exists or that the sky (even here) is blue. As though it was an immutable fact that could not be argued against, constant as the boiling point of pure water and certain as death. 

Wilson bypassed the certainty and focused on the 'stupid'. His (stupid) pride railed against it. 

"I thought we agreed that we were smart but foolish," he hissed, his temper slipping the muzzle. "What is it with you and insulting me today? I'm not a damn child." 

Wendy didn't flinch. She just looked sad and pitying and understanding in a way that made Wilson's teeth itch as much as it made his heart ache. "I am a stupid girl for not realizing. We are all equally foolish and equally stupid." She paused, and looked over her shoulder. "Except Webber, of course. He is perfect. And quite perceptive." 

"Um?" And there was Webber, peeking around the corner. The boy, for his part, was looking back and forth between his beloved Wendy and his new friend (who was probably starting to look kind of scary, what is it with Wilson and terrifying people who didn't deserve it?) with confusion and concern. "Are you okay? Are you... fighting?" 

"I don't know what we're doing," Wilson muttered. He made a solid effort to swallow down his anger (Wendy was working towards earning his ire but Webber definitely didn't deserve it) and tried to look calm and comforting. "Sorry, I don't know what--" 

He was so focused on the boy that he didn't notice Wendy moving towards him (he would say quiet as a ghost except she was even quieter than the ever-sighing Abigail) until she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight as she could. Wilson froze in place, one hand raised in a consoling gesture, one arm limp by his side, eyes still on Webber as she pressed her cheek to his chest and sighed. 

"It's all right." Her voice was muffled by his cloak. "I'm here." 

The sky seemed to go on forever. 

"The custom is to return an embrace such as this." 

Wilson didn't realize he was crying until long after he had both arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders and his face buried in her hair. He couldn't even begin to guess how long he cried before he started laughing between the sobs. He _was_ a stupid boy, and whatever stupid foolishness Wendy was guilty of she had the wisdom to see his jealousy for what it was. Jealousy at the simple human physical contact he so desperately lacked. Even before he ended up on the island. Voluntary isolation to involuntary isolation. He needed this. He just needed a bloody _hug_. 

At length there was the sound of a throat being cleared (the strange chitter mixing with the usual human sound starting to sound less terrifying and more interesting, amazing how much human contact could mellow a man). Webber looked at them somewhat nervously, fiddling his fingers together and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Um. We know we just met you, Mr. Higgsbury, but if hugging would make you feel better would you like us to help?" 

By all rights Wilson shouldn't want anything to do with him, at least, not this soon. There were fangs and twitching insect legs and eight milky eyes the likes of which haunted his nightmares. The spiders unsettled him in a fundamental way the hounds or the treeguards or even the shadows failed to spark, and he'd had no time to get used to Webber as an exception to that rule. Wilson should be repulsed by the spider... but all he could see in that moment was the kind, worried boy concerned about the mental wellbeing of a man he only just met and who probably needed a hug just as much. 

Wilson sunk to his knees and held out his arm. Webber brightened, brilliant as the sun, and dove into him. Wendy knelt down too and they all wrapped around each other, Webber giggling and Wilson blinking away the tears and Wendy softly smiling at him over the top of the boy's head. 

It was the first time Wilson saw Wendy's smile directed at him. 

"Are we friends?" Wilson blurted out, his mouth taking leave of his mind. 

Wendy's smile shifted into an expression of acute (by her muted standards) distress. "I thought you _knew_." 

"I didn't want to assume--" 

"We discuss literature and internal anatomy. We banter. Oh, dear, was I so distant you couldn't tell?" 

"Maybe?" 

There were apologizes (maybe) and reassurances to Webber that he didn't do anything wrong, and more laughing and crying rolled in together. Somewhere in the midst of that Wendy and Wilson managed to brew a passable mint leaf tea and baked a couple pieces of unleavened birchflour bread which, with the application of berry jam, could pass for scones (if you squinted). Wendy fetched a fresh piece of purple meat from the drying racks and Webber made a questionable sandwich out of it (Wilson watched with some trepidation and a fair measure of fascination as the boy ate the monster flesh without issue, hypothesizing that the apparent spider hybridization gave the boy an immunity to the negative effects of the stuff).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this going! There's been a lot of vacations at work (including mine) and a general writer slump but I seem to be past it for now. Thanks for sticking with me!


	22. Twenty Questions Over Tea

After making short work of the 'scones' Webber tugged Wilson around the side of their little kitchen table and sat quite happily nestled between the two adults. Between hugs and tea Wilson handled the contact very well with only a vague unease buried under his grin (perhaps, he reasoned, because he didn't make a habit of cuddling the unpleasant spider varieties so this particular form of contact wasn't tainted by fear). 

Webber chattered (and chittered) about his own adventures, but mostly he asked his new friend a stream of questions which Wilson gladly answered (children were born scientists and Wilson always tried his best not to stifle that natural curiosity, and besides, Webber was such a pleasant child that Wilson judged it impossible to be cross with the boy). 

"How old are you?" 

"Oh, I'm ancient. _Thirty-three_ , if you can believe it." 

"Wow!" 

"... Actually it might be thirty-four, by now... or thirty-five." 

"Time is funny here. It likes to wobble all over." 

"So then, how old are you?" 

"We think we're ten or maybe eleven." 

"... Ah." 

"What's your favorite color?" 

"Oh, uh, I'd have to say it's red. What about yours?" 

"We like red the best, too! Or maybe blue. All the colors are pretty so it's hard to choose!" 

"I'd say it's perfectly acceptable to have more than one favorite." 

"Yeah! Where do you come from?" 

"England. London, to be precise, though my mother's family is from Essex and we visited the country often when I was younger." 

"We're from two places, too! Our human half came from a farm near Wexford and our spider half came from here!" 

"Well... that's rather multinational of you." 

"Wendy said you do science, is that true?" 

"Indeed it is! I am a dedicated scientist, even here." 

"What kind of science do you do?" 

"Well, I have training in medicine and chemistry along with tinkering skills. I was going to become a doctor, but... well, it turns out it didn't suit me." 

"But isn't fixing people up important?" 

"It is, as are many other jobs. Not everyone is cut out to be a doctor, just as not everyone is cut out to be an artist or an athlete." 

"Or a farmer!" 

"Exactly. I know I want to work in science but I'm still not sure what branch. I'm sure I'll find my calling... sooner rather than later, I hope." 

"Can you play any music?" 

"I can tap out a few simple melodies on a piano, but I wouldn't say I _play_ the instrument. I'm at least better at that than the old trumpet on the mantle! Anytime I got hold of that when I was a child I'd raise a horrible racket." 

"I did that too! Except it was a dusty old thing that was really complicated and had lots of strings. I found it in the loft of the barn, something the old farmers left behind." 

"Did you play it well?" 

"I dropped it and it fell down the stairs." 

"That's... unfortunate." 

"It scared the dickens right out of the goats! Mum was so busy laughing at the way they looked that father couldn't even be cross with me." 

"Fortunate, then." 

"What's your whole name?" 

"Wilson P. Higgsbury." 

"What's the 'P' stand for?" 

"... Percival." 

"Oh. Why don't you like it?" 

"It's not a big deal, really. It's just I was named after my uncle who isn't a _terrible_ person by any means but he grates on my nerves." 

"Why?" 

"Conflicting personalities, I suppose." 

"Do we conflict with you?" 

"No. I quite like spending time with you." 

"You didn't want to before, when you went to get wood." 

"Well, I hadn't really met you yet. I just get a bit shy, I guess, around new people." 

"But we're not new anymore, right?" 

"Absolutely right!" 

"Do you like goats?" 

"... Goats? I mean, they're all right. Springy things, interestingly blue, shockingly electric." 

"What about goats from where we're from? You and our human half, we mean." 

"Honestly I've had little experience with the beasts. I've spent most of my life in cities, and when I was in the country there weren't any goats around. Horses, now horses I have more experience with." 

"Father says horses are bits of glass wrapped in easily spooked nerves." 

"That is an accurate description. Horses are truly absurd creatures." 

"Do you know how to ride a horse?" 

"I do! Nothing fancy, mind you, but my family would often go on rides when we visited my mother's family in the country." 

"How big is your family?" 

"Well, it's been a while since I've lived with them. But there's my mother, father, older brother, and younger sister." 

"You're lucky! I was supposed to be the oldest brother but then hard times came and my mum was worried about having another mouth to feed." 

"So, it was just you, your mum, and your dad?" 

"And grandpa! He took me fishing a lot and read me stories." 

"He sounds like quite the grandfather." 

"He was! Mum and father are wonderful but grandpa was my favorite. Is it okay to have a favorite?" 

"That's the way it is with my sister. Not that I don't love my brother but my sister and I understand each other on a deeper level." 

"So she's your favorite person out of your family?" 

"Yeah, I'd say she is." 

"Is Wendy your favorite person here? Um… are you okay?” 

"Uhg, sorry, I'm fine. Some of the tea went down the wrong tube, is all." 

"We only ask because she's really nice to us, and we know she likes to see us but we're not grown up like she is now. Mum used to tell grandpa that he had to talk to another adult or his mind would go funny. And the only ones she has to talk to most of the time is the jerk pigs!" 

"Well, she wasn't wrong. I mean, yes, I am fond of Wendy's company and conversation." 

"Do you like Abigail too?" 

"Yes, I'm fond of her as well." 

"We're glad! Abigail has to sleep sometimes, and we can tell Wendy gets lonely and we can't stay for long because the ruins don't like us. But they keep Wendy--and you!--safe and sound so we don't mind." 

"Don't you get lonely, though? Maybe there's something we can figure out, I mean, we've been focused on making life more liveable but we're reaching a stable point where we can focus more time and energy on exploring why the ruins are what they are..." 

"Oh, don't worry! We have lots of spider friends, and if they're not around it's still okay. Even if we're by ourselves we're never alone!" 

"That's... very philosophical of you." 

"We're glad you can stay! Wendy is always lots happier when someone else is around." 

"Webber, perhaps you should ask Mr. Higgsbury what stories he favors and relate to him some of the tales your grandfather told you." 

"Good idea, Wendy! Mr. Higgsbury, what _is_ your favorite story?" 

"Yes, that. Hmm... I'm trying to remember which ones I liked the best when I was your age..." 

"Which ones do you like now?" 

"Honestly my studies were more in the line of numbers. A lot of the books I've read recently were more about ethics and philosophy." 

"What's that mean?" 

"Ah, well, books about the darker parts of human nature, I suppose you could call it? Exploring human nature. Dissecting it, really. Things that aren't necessarily pleasant to read, but they're important to read because of the questions they make you ask yourself. I think you might be doing all right on that front, though, no need to read about scarlet plagues or Doctor Moreau." 

"Plagues are scary, even when they make the plants sick instead of the people. But you must have to learn about them since you did doctor things." 

"That _is_ part of what drew me to that kind of fiction. If I was going to be a doctor I was going to take it seriously. I hated the sort who didn't seem to care about their patients as people, who concerned themselves only with the malady and not how it or treatment might affect the patient." 

"Why would they be like that?" 

"I think part of it comes from feeling superior to the patient, like their input doesn't matter. Granted, if a patient isn't in their right mind you sometimes have to ignore what they're saying because they're not thinking straight--like a small child who's afraid of the injection that will save their life, or an adult in an altered mental state being restrained so they can't hurt themselves or anyone around them--but treating a reasonable person like a bawling child just because they don't know the Latin name of the body part affected is just… impressively stupid.” 

“That sounds bad.” 

“Mmm hmm. Some have a horrifying lack of empathy, they just don't care what their patient is going through. Sometimes, though, a doctor just gets worn out on empathy. It... it seemed like a lot of the surgeons who served in the war suffered from that. If they cared about all the soldiers torn to shreds they wouldn't be able to go on, so they just... just get..." 

"Numb?" 

"Yes. Thank you, Wendy. Look at me, going on about things like that... let me think, what're some frivolous things I've liked... I did like the play A Woman of No Importance, and Lady Windermere's was good too. Oh! I thought of one from my younger years. I liked Treasure Island to the point of declaring I'd be a pirate when I grew up." 

"We don't know that one." 

"That's too bad. Well, what stories do you like?" 

"Grandpa used to read me lots of stories from the Bible and lots and lots of fairy stories from this big old book with thorny vines on the cover. The Wolf and the Seven Kids, Snow-White and Rose-Red, The Fisherman and His Wife, Rapunzel--there were a lot!" 

"I'm glad you got to hear so many good stories!" 

"Us too!" 

Things started to wind down as dusk fell. Webber, rubbing his cheek, reluctantly admitted to a headache caused by whatever was in the ruins (not that Wilson was well versed in how symptoms present in what is apparently a mammal-arachnid hybrid, but the boy's energy was on a sharp decline and his body language turned muted). After hugging the corporeal residents and waving to Abigail, Webber headed off for Wendy's spider cages to bunk down for the night. 

Wilson watched the boy until he disappeared into the growing darkness, then watched the darkness until a campfire blazed to life in the distance. "How long will he stay?" 

Wendy came to stand next to him. After a moment she shifted closer so that their arms just touched. "He'll leave tomorrow afternoon, at the latest." 

"Can we help him? Set up a camp outside the ruins, maybe, or--" 

There was nothing Wendy did that wasn't muted, but by her standards the sorrow was intense. "While strongest within the ruins, the effects span the breadth of this area. He cannot stay, his visits are far between, and he can only enter and leave through a great colony of spiders deep in the thick pine forest. They won't attack Webber, but they would overwhelm us in an instant." 

"You've tried to follow him before." 

"That was not a question. And, yes, I have." She sighed, sounding exhausted as Wilson felt. "Were we to embark on the mountainous task of destroying the nests, I fear it would accomplish little aside from preventing Webber's return." 

Wilson was built for questions, for curiosity, for examining every angle and exploring every possible solution, it all died in his throat at the finality of Wendy's declaration. He ran a hand through his hair, growling in frustration. "How much can this place take from us?" 

"Always a little bit more." 

They drifted off to their respective tents soon after. Wilson stripped down to his underthings and lay there feeling wrung out. Even after the mint leaf tea his nose felt a bit stuffy, and his eyes held that familiar quality of having had a good cry. His lips curled into a grin on their own (Wendy considers him a friend!) even as his mind whirled. Wilson itched to find a solution to Webber’s situation, to discover some way to keep the boy with them, his thoughts building like a wave and then breaking upon the solid wall of Wendy's certainty. 

Wilson had felt certain of so little in his life. He hungered for the answers that would make a fixed point in the chaos, simultaneously sought out and rebelled against the unknown as his curiosity battled his need for safety, but in the moments where Wendy became the unmoveable object to his unstoppable force he couldn't help but feel like she regretted her certainty. 

If Wilson hadn't spent the day swinging wildly between extremes of emotion he might've dwelled on the problem of helping Webber the whole night through. As it was he didn’t remember drifting off and woke to the boy's greeting, bright as the rising sun. In the end Wilson didn't think about the spider nests or the ruins or Webber's condition, at least, not as much as he could. Those thoughts turned in the back of his mind, questions he was unable to stop (nor did he want them to stop, whatever or wherever he was he would always be a _scientist_ in some form, his fixed point in curious chaos, the thing that remained when all else was ripped away), but Wilson devoted the rest of his being to spending time with Webber. 

They ate breakfast, they talked, they played, they ate lunch, and then the boy was off. 

They watched Webber leave, just as they had the night before. This time Wendy hesitantly slipped an arm around Wilson's waist. He laid his across her shoulders. They watched Webber disappear into the forest at the edge of the ruin's wide field. 

It seemed Webber was never alone, at least. And neither were they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dipped a little more into the 'experimental' tag here with the dialog only section. Let me know how it went!


	23. Red Fish

In the season since Webber's visit the two adults (was she a teenager? was she in her twenties? Wilson long ago gave up on asking but he couldn't help but wonder) settled back into their routine. It was more or less the same as the routine they'd settled into before the boy's arrival. Wilson and Wendy worked together on building food and firewood stores, they tested and considered and settled on a waxed canvas roof construction method, they embroidered and they experimented. The only difference was that they were comfortably friends. Which, apparently, Wendy considered the two of them comfortably friends since the end of their first rocky winter, or so she said when he pressed for details over that emotional tea. 

In the week following the revelation, though, Wilson thought it might have been a moment of pity. Wendy didn't act differently, and while he didn't expect her behavior to change dramatically (she had expressed surprise that he didn't know given her existing behavior) but he still expected _something_. He was settling in for a sharp downswing, his mood turning a corner like a boomerang, when in the middle of supper Wendy suddenly looked at him with intensity (he suddenly realized she hadn't really been focusing on him, or anything around her). They had a talk (there might've been more tears) and she revealed that sometimes she... 'forgot' (the word wasn't strong enough to define what she described, but it was the word she used). 

Wilson could've kicked himself afterwards, except his gummy leg wouldn't allow it without falling over. Trauma manifests in many ways--he _knew_ that--some victims of violence came through the hospital doors screaming at the brush of a feather because everything was too much and some could barely make themselves notice when deep lacerations were prodded in examination because everything was too little. 

The the information certainly cast a new light on the number of times she startled when he came into view that first season with a 'border' (he thought it was fear, and there must've been some of that too, but mostly the knowledge that someone else was sharing her humble home somehow drifted away). It cast light on his own behavior as well, how sometimes things were too bright, too bitter, how even the quiet rasp of dyed spidersilk being drawn through felt sometimes sounded like a stampeding herd of beefalo. 

It was... uncomfortable, being aware of how much time his friend spent only partially engaged with the world around her. Not to mention being aware of how much his own existence had shifted so drastically without him noticing the change. Certainly it made sense Wilson hadn't noticed, just as he didn't notice losing weight after moving to his cottage to the point that Jules, who hadn't seen him in months, was taken aback. But just as in that case the realization was like becoming aware of how one's tongue sat in one's mouth. Not _bad_ , just... uncomfortable. Wilson did a good job not noticing (hah, 'forget') how dramatically he'd changed. Since the cottage in America, since the townhouse in England, since everything. 

After he got done being uncomfortable about the scope of his trauma Wilson reasoned that their opposite ways of dealing with trauma made them a better team. He noticed things she didn't and she helped him to be still. It helped to spin it as a positive, and besides, being uncomfortable could be a sign of growth. Growing pains. Wilson had told Wendy more than once about the necessity of change (be it personal or global), even if the transition chaffed. Deviation from the usual routine is where discovery lives. It's where progress happens. 

On a crisp day at the thawing end of the blessedly shorter winter of the ruins Wendy and Wilson took the winding path up the mountains to dig into the newly exposed vein of gold-bearing glittering chalk, laid bare when a wintertime lightning strike triggered a small landslide. The stability of the area was dubious at best but they couldn't pass up such a large amount of the stuff just sitting on the surface. With the concept proved they needed a great deal of nuggets to trade for roofing supplies (raw canvas by the bolt, honeycomb full of larvae to increase beeswax production) as well as using the gold as a raw material to finish blanketing the ruins and their various farms in lightning rods (Wilson set up some near the base almost immediately upon arriving, now he worked on rendering the whole field relatively safe in a lightning storm). 

They'd already gathered all the shattered, loose bits in previous trips and were starting in on serious mining for the first time on this visit. Wilson set about the very dignified and scientific process of testing the safety of the area they were planning on working in (by hefting large rocks at it from various angles and waiting to see if anything shifted alarmingly) while Wendy set up a semi-permanent shelter (with a wide piece of canvas, rope, and a couple trees). 

It was peaceful, so far as life on the island could get. 

At Wendy's sharp intake of breath Wilson spun to face her, survivalist's anxiety spiking in his chest (fear is necessary to human survival, fear is what gives you the edge when there's predators in the dark). 

Wendy's emotions (however bright, however dark) were always dulled. By tragedy or training, Wilson still wasn't sure, but even at extremes she came off muted. 

Raw, vivid terror painted bold across her face, Wendy called to her sister as she wrenched the shovel out of the ground. To Wilson's bafflement when the two came close Wendy _swung_ at Abigail, the ghostly form vanishing in a puff of mist. Wendy dropped the shovel and swooped down to pick the uneven pink ball of a curled flower all in one motion. Then she ran, grabbing Wilson's hand and dragging him along. It was too fast for his bad leg and he started to protest even as he tried to keep up (heart racing, secondhand fear, if it's bad enough to shatter Wendy's porcelain mask then it had to be horrible) but the statement "I can't run this fast" was barely past his lips when _it_ came around the bed. 

Wilson's mind, any human mind (the pigman mind too), rebelled against the sight of the shadows. These two-dimensional forms standing in a three-dimensional space, flat and perpendicular to one's vision no matter how one turned and twisted, they shouldn't exist. But a human mind could see the shadows, however wrong they were. It could remember and catalog and describe, it could recreate an image of the shadow with the appropriate number of eyes and legs and mouths and approximately the right shape. The human mind didn't like it, but it could _know_ the shadows once it had a little practice with them, it could recognize individuals among the dark shapes. They weren't right, but they _were_. 

This. 

This was unknowable. This was truly beyond description. The human mind couldn't see this, couldn't fathom, couldn't understand any part of it. Wilson's eyes seemed to slide right off it, his brain unable (or refusing) to process the information, like a patient in shock unable to remember the shape of the bone sticking out of their own limbs. Thrashing against its existence like an animal in a cage. Did it even qualify as _it_? Was it real enough for that? 

A sharp yank at his arm drew him out of his daze. Fight well and truly abandoned, Wilson and Wendy _flew_ in the way only an apex predator being made into prey can. Pain is the body's way of saying that something is wrong. Adrenaline is the body's way of suspending that message, of allowing itself to be propelled through aching lungs and screaming muscles to _get away get away get away_. What little of Wilson's brain that wasn't tied up in fear and no and _run_ knew his leg, his hip, would be impossible come morning. The rest of his mind, regressed to that of a terrified rabbit, screamed that there would be no morning. 

An unknowable limb--appendage--mouth-- _something_ swept out and Wilson crashed sideways into Wendy. They wordlessly clamored back up and kept running. One of Wilson's hands was clasped with hers and the other clutched his side. He didn't feel the pain, not yet, but he felt the wet warmth flow over his hand (fast slick _hot_ ). 

Coming around the bend on the rocky path it came at them again. They tumbled and they fell, still hand in hand, down the steep earthy slope, rolling to a rest at the edge of the chalky cliffs overlooking the lake. Wilson saw everything, his mind latching on to whatever knowable details it could find. The exact pattern of clouds in the overcast sky, the precise placement of every rocky surface on the mountain above, the green waters of the lake far below. Every color and sound burned with a horrible intensity. Wilson could see every individual grain of sandy soil sliding out from his fingers, every tiny fleck of subtle color in Wendy's terrified grey eyes. 

Wendy's scream followed him down to the lake's surface. 

The impact stung so badly he went numb. Dizzy, disoriented, Wilson clawed at the green water. He didn't know which way was up, which way was air and which way was death. After a minute, an hour, exhaustion caught up with him, the distant phantom pain in his leg beginning to become real. His struggle slowed. In the absence of his desperate flailing the churned water settled and cleared. Wilson could see the shimmer of the sun on the surface, below and to the left from his current orientation in space. A few rising bubbles confirmed safety's direction. 

It was so, so, so very far away. He felt so tired. 

Wilson wondered... 

(what in him was worth saving?) 

The world... drifted. 

Somewhere in that green darkness the thought floated up like bubbles, smaller and smaller. 

(Wendy spending the rest of her days alone in this world) 

Pulling from deep reserves, deeper than the marrow, from the deepest depths of his stubborn soul, Wilson kicked, and he pushed great handfuls of water behind him, and the surface still looked miles away but it was getting closer, his lungs _screamed_ but it was-- 

A wrath of silt and sand boiling up around him served as his only warning before it closed around his legs. A writhing, coiling tentacle like sandpaper, like shark skin, tore through the worn material of his trousers. Biting into his skin. The pain supplied him a fresh burst of energy, of fight, but it was far too little far too late. It had him, both legs trapped, now an arm, preventing him from flailing in its vice of a grip. The water cleared (aside from the floating wisps of blood, floating like red smoke) as Wilson descended and with numb curiosity he stared through the greenish haze and saw glowing lines, symbols, scrawled across crumbled sunken structures covered in plants and algae (what did it mean? what did it mean? curious to the last breath of air escaping his lungs) 

Constriction. Pounding heart. Taste of water. 

Bubbles rising. Smaller and smaller. 

Fear. Pain. Far away. 

Farther still. 

Heart. 

Slow. 

Tired... 

Dark...... 

Numb......... 

.................................................................. Sleep......................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	24. You Might Want To Consider Throwing That One Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ******NOTE****** I posted two chapters at once! If you haven't read the chapter 'Red Fish' go back and read it first!

The world slammed back into place and Wilson gasped, long and shuddering, as he fell hard onto the damp ground. He lay there coughing, curled into a ball and clutching at the gaping wound across his abdomen. 

"There is but a memory of water," Wendy's steady voice, steady as gravity, cut through. "Focus on this. Your lungs remember the water that filled them even though they are clean. Instinct, your animal self, has you panicked. Breathe and be human again." 

She continued on in her flat, firm tone, repeating the same things and giving him something to focus on. Wilson held onto her words like a lifeline. It seemed like it took a decade but he found his heart slowing to a reasonable pace. 

The fear bled away to something manageable. Mostly, anyway. 

When he opened his eyes the world seemed too bright in an all too familiar way and flickers of shadow danced at the corner of his vision. The damn things were laughing at him and _still_ they managed to look downright cuddly compared to--his whole being rebelled against his attempt to remember any detail about the thing. Scale was the only thing he could remember with any kind of accuracy, and even that was by way of the shape of the space around it versus the shape of the thing itself. Even then it was ever changing, shifting from a little bit bigger than he was to a bit bigger than the deerclops (maybe even bigger than the deerclops standing on that moose-goose thing's shoulders, uhg). 

Wilson blinked. He swallowed. "Huh?" he managed at last, willing his swimming vision to focus on his companion. She knelt beside him, reaching out but not touching him. 

"I thought I was too late," Wendy breathed, her brows drawing together in pained disbelief. 

Still not entirely together, Wilson awkwardly stared at her. He noticed a rope was tied around her waist. Wilson followed the line of it across the ground to a small crowd of pigmen muttering quietly among themselves. One of them extinguished a torch. He stared at them only half-seeing and hearing nothing but unspecific noise. 

"You dove in after me," he stated, his eyes sliding back to Wendy. Easily observable fact. Another fact is even if she took a shortcut to the water it would still have taken a long time for her to get the pigmen. Longer than he had air in his lungs even if he wasn't in the grips of a monster (a refreshingly _real_ monster, even if it did try and eat him). As he cast around for an answer Wilson saw the campfire burned down to embers, and the sun just rising (it was mid-afternoon at the latest when he fell). "How... how am I alive?" 

She didn't answer. 

Wilson patted his clothes, which were inexplicably dry aside from the effects of the mud he sat in (how long was he out? why was Wendy still dripping?). His homemade coat and applesnake armor were gone, lost to the lake he supposed. He expected to find a great bloodstain across his middle but when he unbuttoned his (intact) waistcoat he found nothing but soft white fabric. That and an unfamiliar gold chain attached to what looked to be an empty setting for a stone. He didn't feel great, and the world shimmered around the edges and he could see flickering shadows (how real they looked now, compared to that unknowable something), but he wasn't as bad off as he should be. 

Wilson stared at his stomach where the gash should be. And stared. His clothes weren't just dry, they were _repaired_. All the mending done in surgeons stitching missing and the cloth remade where the tear once was. All the long since set stains and that speckling of green dye on his sleeves nowhere to be found. His back and side were muddy from the ground he lay on, but everything else... out of long habit he wrapped an arm around his middle, hand to the side seam of his waistcoat. The uneven mending left by his sister remained, true as ever, but everything else was so... perfect. So _wrong_. 

"What... what _happened_?" 

Wendy sat down on the ground beside him, looking away. Water dripped off the limp silk flower pinned in her hair. Her hands folded in her lap, still regal and formal even when soaked to the bone (she's wet, why isn't he?). 

"You died." 

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then laughed weakly. 

Wendy reached out and tapped the gold necklace around his neck (moving as though she didn't quite expect him to have a solid form). Her tone was that of an apology. "The amulet returns you to the state you first woke to. No injuries, no scars, no evidence of the struggle of this world. Except for the memories. They..." she sighed, long and slow and sad, "... linger." 

Statement like that warranted disbelief. 

"Just as well, really," she said, her attempt at nonchalance betrayed by the tremor in her hands and voice. 

Except. 

"You'll be rid of that limp and poisons shall no longer trouble you more than they should." 

He might believe her. 

"Wendy?" 

Something broke in her gray eyes. Wendy fought hard to keep the pieces together but Wilson watched her shatter. She flung herself at him, gripping his shirt tight and burying her face in his chest. After a brief moment of surprise he drew her in close, and whispering soothing nothings to her as she cried. Though the wracking sobs, broken by gasps for air, she babbled, saying more in three minutes than he'd heard her say in the last three weeks. Still in shock and processing what just happened Wilson didn't follow every word but he got Wendy's meaning. 

( _don't want to be alone again not yet let me have a little more time before I'm alone again please don't leave me alone_ ) 

Wilson didn't know how long they sat like that after the first flurry of tears faded, Wendy curled in against his chest while he held her tight. One of the pigmen (Gallienus, no, wait, Cheddar?) cleared his throat in a manner so like a human that Wilson couldn't help a giddy giggle. 

"We bring friends food," probably-Cheddar said, quieter than their kind's usual shout (almost as if they didn't want to break the moment, kind of them). He handed them a pile of berries in a birchnut bark bowl, then at Wendy's quiet thanks he and the rest of his troupe headed back to the village. 

Wilson made a valiant stab at small talk. "That was nice of them. Bringing us food." 

"It was also pleasant that they assisted me in saving your life." 

"Uh... right." The berries didn't look terribly appetizing, though at least Wendy's presence was making a dent in his shaken nerves (in terms of the hallucinations, not so much in the realm of almost dying except he's pretty sure there was no 'almost'). 

Wendy pulled back, still huddled in his lap but with enough distance that they could look at each other. "You must have questions." 

Many, but one that felt most pressing. "What the hell was that..." 'Thing' didn't seem appropriate, it was just too unreal. Wilson ended his question with a helpless gesture instead of a word. 

"No name could possibly describe it." Wendy's voice still shuddered, tears drawing clean tracks across her dirty cheeks. "Unfathomable. Abstruse. Inexplicable. You may take your pick." 

"The ab-one sounds mystical, I guess?" 

"The word is recondite, yes." 

"If you keep doing that the next hour is going to be filled with puns." 

The half-laugh, half-sob that escaped Wendy's throat took her by surprise (if her startled look was any indication, like a horse spooking itself by sneezing). 

Wilson hugged her close again, tucking her head under his chin. There was an... obvious question, but he wasn't quite up to looking it in the eye yet (so he looked over its shoulder). "So... how did you not drown?" 

The broken sound made a return, though this time they both expected it (he hugged her tighter). "A most complicated device, powered by curious gems and the stuff of nightmares. The staff of endless winter I lost to the lake when I took hold of your corpse." 

"Sounds..." Wilson waited for the instinctive 'bugger that' but it never surfaced (the last shreds of his denial finally burned to ashes, and all it took was dying). "Sounds great." 

"You sound remarkably unenthused." 

"Well my head is pounding and everything is too bright and those right bastards of shadows are laughing at me so you're lucky I'm sounding like anything at all." 

"'Bastards' is not a strong enough word." Wendy stood and glared off to her right, wincing as she did. Wilson followed her grimace and saw the one with the big beaky mouth (he'd noticed her twitching after hard fights, jumping at shadows, but were they the _same_ shadows? was that better or worse than them only existing in his own mind?). 

"At some point," Wilson said slowly, squinting at the shadow creature (Almighty but that other _thing_ did a number on his head, he really was grateful to see the relatively logical shadows), "when we've had some food and feel a bit more ourselves, we should probably talk now that I'm no longer an idiot." 

A smile twitched at the corner of Wendy's mouth. "Debatable." 

Instead of taking the bait Wilson took her offered hand. Everything ached and the burgeoning migraine wasn't helping, but it seemed Wendy was right in that his bad leg wasn't his bad leg anymore. Still, he was exhausted and in the habit so he limped on towards the ruins, arm thrown over her shoulders and her arm around his waist. 

They held each other up like a house of cards and made their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2x combo! I am evil but I am not cruel.
> 
> I've had almost the entirety of Red Fish written since I posted the second chapter.
> 
> As a side note, in the last chapter when Wilson talks about patients in shock looking right at gruesome injuries and not seeing them because their brains went 'lol nope' is based on personal experience, when I was 16 I broke my arm quite badly and while I did look right at it when it was at a less than great angle I have no idea what it looked like because my brain knew I didn't need to see that shit. Brains are weird!
> 
> Also if you'd like a reference of what kind of Lovecraftian I'm going for with the unidentifiable thing [here you go](http://lovivargas.tumblr.com/post/175260703297/datmemesboi-the-dark-lord-has-come).


End file.
